


Thunderlight

by first_place_ace



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pokemon Mystery Dungeon
Genre: Adventure, Character Development, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, LGBT, Like one hates the other and the other doesn't give a shit, M/M, Pokemon, Pokemon Nicknames, Quest, Romance, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Talking Pokemon, but I tagged it in case, but then they fall in love, kinda??, more like unrequited enemies lmao, mostly just wishing they could disappear, pokemonpov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 111,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26130346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/first_place_ace/pseuds/first_place_ace
Summary: Zekrom has ravaged the region for months now. It attacks with blind savagery, decimating entire cities in the span of mere hours. As the death toll continues to rise, the region grows restless in its need for saving. Yet, no one can step up to the challenge. Who could possibly have the power to defeat an ancient, legendary dragon?Montgomery is a member of the esteemed and affluent Alcott family... or, he was. After suffering a public blunder that humiliates his entire family, he is stripped of the Alcott name. Desperate to return to his former glory, he will accept any task—but he had never expected to be put to such a perilous test. If he ever hopes to redeem himself and return to the Alcott name, he must perform an impossible, Herculean feat: defeating the vile Zekrom.
Relationships: Daikenki | Samurott/Hahakomori | Leavanny
Comments: 89
Kudos: 32





	1. Prologue: Enter, Our Heroes

In any one town, a number of things can go wrong. These range on a scale from mild inconvenience to horrific atrocity. Right now, the little town nestled at the foot of a large mountain is undergoing what most would call a mild inconvenience. But the townsfolk seem pretty obstinate on treating it like a horrific atrocity. 

“Bandits!” An old mienfoo screams, waving her cane at one of the thugs in a vain attempt to ward them off her property. The bandit ducks from her vicious swing, uprooting her entire mailbox before making a swift getaway. “Someone, stop them!” 

Civilians yelp and leap aside from the bandits like they’re contaminated with the plague. There’s three of them in total, grabbing whatever they can get their grimy little paws on and stuffing it in their arms. Greedily, they’ve already grabbed more than they can handle, barely able to waddle down the road with all their loot. If one of the townsfolk simply stuck out a foot, they could trip all three vagrants and capture them in one go. 

But they don’t. As easy as getting the mail, the three bandits hobble down the street, jeering and guffawing at their success. One of them drops a painted rock they picked up from someone’s yard. The crook looks down at the fallen rock, then up at the massive stack of junk in their hands. Crouching, slowly and with great difficulty, they strain to pick it up. They stretch their fingers and cuss the rock out like it will get the pebble to hop back into their hand. A newspaper on top of their pile wobbles precariously. 

Just as the bandit snatches the rock up with a cry of triumph, the newspaper falls and hits their head. They shout a few quick curses, bending to try and pick it up. In the depths of their immense concentration, they fail to notice the sound of roaring waves rolling ever closer. The other two robbers hear it, though, and turn. Their eyes widen comically in fright at the flood rushing through the street. 

Unwilling to release their treasures, they simply waddle faster. In no time at all, the wave catches up with them, crashing into them and sending their loot flying into the air. Before their findings plummet into the water, a strong silky thread shoots through the air and wraps around the goods, catching them. With the combination of fearsome water and the use of String Shot, the civilians immediately know who’s come to their rescue. 

“It’s them!” The old mienfoo cries, thrilled as the two heroes leap over her home, their shadows covering her. “Unova’s Paladins!” 

The heroes land in the street, the samurott calming the water until it sinks back into the earth, and the leavanny catching the stolen items wrapped in silk. Throughout the street, citizens cheer as if they’ve been rescued from the apocalypse. The samurott basks in the praise while his partner smiles bashfully. 

Spitting water and spite, the thugs push themselves to their feet. Covered in mud and soaked to the bone, whatever intimidating front they had on has long since washed away. Their knees knock together as they stare their foes in the eye. Anyone with two brain cells knows how this battle ends: Unova’s Paladins never lose. 

That’s why it’s not much of a surprise that the bandits immediately turn tail and run. 

The leavanny quickly sets the recovered items aside, dashing after the thieves. His speed is blinding, almost like a strike of lighting. With ease, he catches up to the crooks, leaping onto a building wall above them to cut off their path. Flailing, the three outlaws spin around to turn back. The samurott, large and imposing, blocks their escape. 

From windows and rooftops, citizens watch with eager attention. No one wants to miss a second of the fight, not when they have the opportunity to watch the one and only Unova’s Paladins take down some bad guys! 

The crooks back into each other, unaware of the spectacle they’ve become. They’re far too busy trying not to get captured. But with both heroes on either end of the street, their chances are looking slim. Cornered, the looters have no other choice. They fight back. 

All at once, they charge the leavanny, hoping to bulldoze past his thin frame. They don’t get very far before a jet of water slams into their backs, forcing them into the dirt. They flounder and kick and thrash, trying to break free. The samurott keeps the pressure on them as he casually saunters over and presses his front paws on their backs. Holding them down, he lets up with the water. In a flash, the leavanny spins around them and strings them all up in strong, white fiber. As easily as that, the bandits are captured. 

The onlooking civilians cheer, hooting and hollering with rip-roaring excitement. Some even cry. The leavanny looks incredibly flattered and slightly embarrassed by this. The samurott soaks it all in. With unbounding enthusiasm, the locals rush in to greet and thank their saviors. 

“Montgomery and Lenny, is it?” The old mienfoo asks as she approaches Unova’s Paladins. “It’s an honor to meet the both of you.” 

“Please, call me Mott,” the samurott, Montgomery, says with a dashing smile. Nodding to the trussed up thieves, he adds, “These bandits won’t be giving you guys trouble for a long time now.” 

The outlaws grumble forlornly to themselves. One of them tries to kick a pebble, but it only goes about an inch. 

“Everyone’s stuff is over here!” Lenny the leavanny calls, waving the townspeople over. “As soon as I get this darn silk off it, I’ll help everyone find what they’re missing.” 

A group of kids race over, jumping wildly in hopes to be noticed by their heroes. “Sirs? Sirs!” 

Lenny smiles and kneels down to their level. “Howdy there. Something I can help you with?” 

Suddenly, the group grows shy. They all shuffle and hide their faces. Some giggle awkwardly. But eventually, the bravest of them steps forward: a young patrat girl, with a bandage on her nose. 

Finding her courage and her voice, she asks, “Sirs, will you tell us how you got to be so cool?” 

The kids leap up in excitement, clamouring for all the details. Lenny stands, laughing lightly and dusting himself off. He replies, “Well now, I don’t think we’re all that special.” 

Mott frowns. “I do.” 

“We’re just like any of you,” Lenny insists. “As long as y’all look out for each other and lend a hand when your neighbor is in need, there’s no difference between us and you.” 

“That’s cheesy bullshit and you know it,” the girl complains. Somewhere in the crowd, her parents gasp in horror, whether for her language or her blunt attitude toward such revered heroes, no one can say. Perhaps both. But neither of them seem bothered by her address, in fact, Mott’s grin grows. “You guys are Unova’s most powerful, indestructible, kickass team! How did you get to be so strong?” 

Lenny shifts uncertainly for a moment, as if trying to scrounge up some lesson to pass on to the girl. “Because we ate our veggies every day?”

“Okay, this is painful,” Mott interrupts, scoffing as he affectionately nudges Lenny out of the way. Looking down at the girl, he asks, “What’s your name?” 

She puffs her chest proudly. “Alice!” 

“Well, Alice: do you want to hear the real story of how we became the most unstoppable team in the world?” 

The kids practically shoot into the air with excitement, all screaming variations of incredibly emphatic ‘yes’s. The adults chuckle from the sidelines, endeared, but lean forward just slightly, eager to hear what he has to say. 

Mott smiles knowingly as he begins his tale. 

“Well, this whole story starts with me being an arrogant asshole, which is a pretty common theme…”


	2. A Challenge Given, a Challenge Received

Montgomery has been looking at himself in the mirror for the past hour, now. It’s not that he’s vain. If there were anything else pleasant to look at, his eyes would be there instead. But travelling is boring, so to the mirror he looks. The carriage he’s in bumps along the road, the stoutland drawing the cart chuckling apologies with every little rock. It’s driving him up the wall. Then again, anything could drive him mad when he’s been stuck in this carriage with his family for the past few hours. 

The Alcott family is not known for being silent, which is really the bane of his existence when they’re all forced together like this. Their constant talking is grating on his ears. His younger sister won’t stop blabbering about how many suitors she’s gotten in this month alone, his older brother keeps bragging about how much wealth he’s gained for the family estate this year, and his mother rambles about how nervous she is for this party they’re about to attend. Mott doesn’t see what her problem is with it. They’re just going to the Callahan estate, something they’ve done just about every year to pay their respects to the dying patriarch. If anything, these events are rather somber and a little boring. This is the first year that something has actually changed, and that gives Montgomery a bit of hope that this affair will be more exciting than the rest: the Callahan patriarch finally croaked. 

Maybe his nonchalant treatment of a tragic event sounds harsh, but Montgomery has known the guy his whole life, and honestly, the world is better off. Old Man Callahan was a wrinkly, grouchy, snobby old bastard. Whenever Montgomery was a kid and did something stupid, like grab an extra cookie, the crotchety serperior had to thwack his hand with a **Vine Whip.** It hurt like hell. So, yeah. He doesn’t miss the guy. 

He does, on the other hand, feel a little bad for his son, Florian. Emphasis on ‘a little,’ because Florian is just as snobby as a bastard as his old man. But he and Mott grew up together, so he’s a little more lenient with him, and he feels sympathy for the tough situation he’s in. At only twenty years old, he has to fill his father’s place as the family patriarch and rise up to meet the dead guy’s sky-high expectations. At twenty years old himself, Montgomery doesn’t want to touch that kind of responsibility with a ten foot pole. He’d probably just mess it up, anyhow, as his father was so kind to remind him. 

His father is the only one who doesn’t feel the need to chat aimlessly. Montgomery is thankful that there’s at least one other sane person in this family. Turning to the elder samurott, he gestures to their family and jokes, “Crazy, aren’t they?” 

The Alcott patriarch does not smile. He doesn’t even crack. Instead, his eyes narrow down at Montgomery. That stare hits like a slap in the face, and he quickly looks at his hands to avoid being _actually_ slapped. 

“Montgomery,” his father addresses, stern and unimpressed. The carriage quiets down. They’ve had it ingrained in them to stop talking when their father speaks, unless they want to suffer his temper. “I expect you not to make a fool of yourself tonight.” 

He bites back a sigh. “Yes, father.” 

“I will not have you embarrass us here like you so often do,” he snips, looking out the window as if looking at Montgomery is simply too taxing for him. “This is an important celebration. Florian Callahan is ascending to become the patriarch of his own family. You’re both the same age, yet he has accomplished so much more than you.” 

Part of him has always hated Florian, ever since they were kids, for that very reason. Florian is like the son his father wishes he had. “I apologize, father.” 

“Perhaps try and learn from him tonight. If that is too much for you to handle, just be quiet and don’t speak unless spoken to.” Every word his father says has an extra weight to it. No one else’s words seem to hit him so heavily. Perhaps that’s because his father is the only one of their family who’s fully evolved, a great indicator of both power and social status. Montgomery looks down at his own hands, the useless hands of a mere dewott, and scowls. “Just do us all a favor and refrain from being yourself tonight.” 

“Yes, father.” 

The cart grows silent. They hit another small bump and the stoutland chortles a merry, “Sorry.” Montgomery’s glare grows sharper. As far as he’s concerned, the luckiest one at this party tonight is Florian. He has everyone’s praise and approval, even his father’s. He can’t even get his father’s praise. He’s not asking for some sappy ‘I’m proud of you, son,’ moment. What he wants is a symbol of his recognition, for everyone else to see. For everyone else to look at him and know, right away, that his father favors him. The only way for that to happen is for him to be granted the family crest. 

The Alcott family crest is a deep blue shield with a silver sword cutting across it, to symbolize the sword-like tools all samurott’s receive upon evolution. When a crest is given out, it’s no bigger than a hand, a convenient size to be paraded around on scarves or capes or any other wealthy garment. Crests can only be given out by a family patriarch to his children who he deems fit to carry on the family name. And guess which of the Alcott children is the only one without a crest. Yeah, it’s him. 

His father says he hasn’t proven himself worthy to be an official Alcott family member. That if he made bettering the family’s status his central motivation, perhaps he’d have his crest by now. But no matter what he does, he just can’t seem to reach his father’s expectations. Whenever he beats someone in a duel of honor for the family name, his brother beats five. Whenever he lands a suitor richer than them (rare), his sister lands seven and gets marriage proposals from three. Nothing he does is good enough. But tonight, he’s going to change that. 

Florian is beloved by Father, that’s no secret. On the other hand, Florian doesn’t care at all for Father, and that _is_ a secret that Montgomery was let in on. Although he and Florian certainly aren’t as close as they used to be, they’re still friendly with each other. Usually. Sometimes. Okay, maybe more like once in a blue moon. Point is, they have history, enough that Florian trusts him with his secrets, so maybe there’s a chance that he can convince Florian to put in a good word with his father to get him that crest. Worst case scenario, he blackmails Florian with his secret disdain for the Alcott patriarch to get what he wants. Easy! 

His plan gives him a little burst of excitement, like a firework went off in his chest. He quickly wipes any traces of it from his face, putting on a carefully neutral mask as he was taught to do from a young age. Smiling to himself like an idiot is not a good way to get that family crest. 

The carriage comes to a stop, and the jolly voice of the stoutland woofs, “Here.” 

They step out, Father first, as expected. A Callahan estate attendant announces their arrival, and Father wears the announcement like a crown, holding his head high. Guests gasp and whisper to each other, in awe, probably stunned to see one of Unova’s richest patriarchs in the flesh. His family trails behind him, much less regal and impressive. Especially in the face of the Callahan estate. 

Is he mistaken, or did Florian redecorate to make the place even _more_ ostentatious? God, what a prick. 

There was one fountain before, now there’s three. Either the marble has been scrubbed clean for seven days straight, or it’s all been replaced. The finest red carpets drape elegantly along the staircases, like wine flowing in a river. Refined statues line the courtyard. The estate has an almost palatial vibe. It reeks of one snobby, pretentious servine that he knows. 

Speaking of. Where is Florian? 

He scans the crowd, but he doesn’t see him. It’s possible that he’s farther in the estate, mingling with the guests inside. Or, he’s just too posh to show up on time to his own party. Montgomery finds both to be equally likely. 

Upon his father’s signal, the family spreads out. Father has a rule: parties are not meant for enjoying, they are meant for business. And business means rubbing elbows with the most powerful people in the room. Montgomery looks around for anyone his siblings haven’t already snatched up: his sister is chatting up a foriegn general and his brother is impressing a group of socialites. His mother frets anxiously, unsure of where to start and afraid of testing Father’s patience. He walks swiftly into the mansion to avoid being in the same predicament. 

Once inside, he’s blown away by the amount of people milling about. This has to be a fire hazard, right? Having all these people stuffed into one room like this? 

He doesn’t pay it much mind. Fire never bothered him, anyway. Taking up a brisk pace, he walks into the crowd in hopes of catching someone he can use to elevate the name of the Alcott family. His sister got a foriegn general; that’s gonna be hard to beat. There’s gotta be someone here who can make her little general look like child’s play. Florian wouldn’t invite a bunch of nobodies to his ascension. 

For a while, Montgomery finds himself drawn into a small crowd of overeager guests. After a few minutes of conversation, he concludes that they’re of relatively low upper class status and that this is probably the fanciest party they’ve ever been to. They won’t be much help in his task, but he does take a moment to enjoy toying with them a bit, flirting carelessly. The girls giggle sheepishly and the boys blush excitedly. Then, without remembering a single one of their names or promises to meet again, he walks away to find his real target. 

Someone rich. Well, richer than most of the people here. Someone powerful, prestigious, unparalleled… 

“Montgomery? Hey!” 

Immediately, he groans. He recognizes that voice, and he knows the owner is the absolute opposite of what he’s looking for. 

He turns with great reluctance to see a pignite shuffling through the crowd with difficulty. His rotund figure makes weaving through a packed room a lengthy process, one that Montgomery does not have time for. Anxiously, he looks back to the front door to see if Father has made it inside yet. Luckily, he hasn’t. But he’ll be checking in soon. What if Mott doesn’t have anything good by then? 

After squeezing through a particularly tight gap, the pignite makes it to him. Catching his breath, he smiles at Montgomery like he didn’t just shove his way inelegantly through a crowd of the most esteemed people in the world. 

“It’s been so long,” Torquil says, his curly tail bouncing excitedly. “I don’t think I saw you since the party at your dad’s estate in the spring. We’ve gotta catch up!” 

Montgomery tries to smile along with the conversation, but he’s pretty sure it comes out more as a grimace. Florian isn’t the only childhood friend (acquaintance?) that he has: Torquil is the other. The three of them used to be thick as thieves when they were younger, but he realized pretty soon that being friends with them was a terrible idea. Family politics were too messy. Whenever he helped Torquil or Florian out with something, Father would accuse him of trying to undermine the Alcott name by focusing all his efforts on other families. All Florian and Torquil ever brought him was trouble. They’re better the way they are now: amicable yet distant. 

“How have you been?” Torquil asks, listening attentively to Montgomery’s vague and brief answer. “That’s cool, that’s cool. Have you heard anything new about the whole Zekrom dilemma?” 

Zekrom has been the talk of the town at every social event he’s been to. Ever since the legendary woke up about three months ago, it’s been on a rampage, attacking and demolishing everything in its path. Thousands dead, cities wiped from the planet, etc etc. 

Montgomery is kind of sick of talking about it, honestly. 

Like, why can’t they talk about anything else? The weather has been crazy lately, how about that? But people will immediately pin the blame of any little storm cloud on Zekrom, claiming he’s come to strike them down with lightning. Any time he tries to bring up any other topic, it always seems to end with Zekrom. He supposes it’s just one of those things that will have to pass slowly, as public interest fades and it grows into obscurity. 

As he makes small talk with Torquil— _yes, I did hear that Zekrom killed twenty-four people in Lord Bennet’s Cartham City, how crazy_ —he searches for an escape route. His eyes wander, landing on something he never expected: a seal on Torquil’s scarf, bold red and depicting flames. 

What?! Torquil got his family’s seal! Before him?!

He’s not sure there’s much else that could slam his self-esteem to the ground any faster. Between himself, Florian, and Torquil, Torquil is definitely the slower of the bunch. The fact that he got surpassed by the dumb one is more embarrassing than he can express. Especially when Torquil keeps smiling at him with those clueless eyes. 

God, he could punch him. 

However, he most decidedly does _not_ want to do that, not with everyone here. That would just stain his family’s reputation. He’d have to kiss goodbye any dreams of claiming the crest. 

He tries to comfort himself by pretending that Torquil’s family is just more lenient than his, that they gave Torquil his emblem out of sympathy. He knows better, though. The Douglass family is on par with the Callahan’s and the Alcott’s. The three of them are neck and neck; they don’t have room to be tossing around pity points. That just means that somehow, the guy who is currently stuffing his face full of appetizers beat Montgomery to getting a crest. 

He watches, his expression forced neutral, as Torquil loudly devours the food stuffed in his mouth. 

Yeah, if Montgomery doesn’t get out of this conversation, he really is gonna punch the guy. 

He makes an excuse—he doesn’t remember what it is, or if it’s even believable—and takes off. Making a beeline to the back door, he forgets all about rubbing elbows like Father instructed and escapes to the gardens outside. There aren’t as many guests out here in the hedge maze, which is a relief. Right now, he needs a moment to himself. 

Finding a lone marble bench, he plops himself down on it and buries his head in his hands. This night already sucks. His siblings beat him to all the good connections and Torquil beat him to a family crest. It seems like everywhere he looks, someone is beating him in something. 

He takes another moment to cool down. Taking deep breaths, he shoves down every nasty thing he’s feeling until he can put up his mask again. Entirely neutral, almost blank. Perfect enough that even Father would struggle to find faults with it. 

Once he’s confident that he’s got that down, he stands, making his way back. He needs to socialize as Father commanded. Either that, or he needs to find Florian to convince him to put in a good word for him with his father. He rounds the corner of the garden maze, and—well. Speak of the devil.

Florian is sitting on a bench, away from the party. No one else is here. Maybe that’s why Florian allows himself to anxiously rub the pendant around his neck and mutter to himself. 

Montgomery immediately recognizes the pendant as part of his family crest: a jade colored emblem with a triple-pointed leaf. It seems that Florian attached his crest to some sort of bejeweled pendant, because he’s just that pretentious. In the cover of the shadows, Montgomery rolls his eyes. Then, he steps out. 

Florian’s eyes snap toward him, startled. Almost instantly, his expression drains to neutrality. Montgomery curses him inside his head. How is it that Florian is even better than him at faking his composure? 

“Florian,” he grins, crossing his arms over his chest, “Long time no see.” 

“Montgomery,” Florian sniffs, arching his brows at him. “I see you’re running away from responsibility in the gardens, as usual.” 

His grin immediately turns to a scowl. “And what exactly are you doing?” 

Florian doesn’t answer. That’s the only way Montgomery ever knows that he won an argument, because Florian will suddenly stop having it. Eventually, Florian picks up a new topic. “Enjoying the party?” 

“It’s wonderful,” he lies, because that’s what Father has instructed him to say about any and every event he attends. Then, somewhat honestly, he adds, “You’ve really outdone yourself.” 

Florian hums. “I’m glad you think so.” 

“You are?” He asks before he can stop himself. His incredulous tone doesn’t go unnoticed by Florian, who frowns at him. “Since when have you cared what I think?” 

“Since the opinion of the Alcott family could impact the reputation of mine,” he responds sharply. “Unlike you, I have duties to fulfill. I bear the burden of the Callahan name and am expected to uphold it. My family has high expectations for me.” 

Montgomery is quiet for a moment. Then, he wonders, “Does it make you nervous?” 

“Of course not,” Florian denies, still rubbing at his amulet. “I am more than capable of the task.” 

“You are,” he agrees, hit with an unexpected wave of sentimentality. He hasn’t seen Florian vulnerable like this since they were kids and Florian’s dad hit him for the first time. “You got your crest when you were, like, twelve. You’ll be fine.” 

Florian’s expression doesn’t change, but he can tell by the way the other’s shoulders lower that his words helped a little. 

Out of nowhere, Montgomery snaps back to his senses. He has a job to do; he doesn’t have time to get sappy with his old friend-not-really-friend-anymore! 

“Speaking of crests,” he begins, and Florian fixes him with a suspicious look. His endeavor to gain the family seal isn’t exactly a secret. “I’d like you to do me a solid and help me get mine.” 

Florian scoffs. “This again?” 

“Come on,” he whines. No, it wasn’t a whine. It was more like a very manly command. “You know my dad likes you more than me. Just talk to him, tell him I deserve it.” 

Florian eyes him up and down. “You _don’t_ deserve it.” 

“Then lie! I don’t care!” 

“As the head of my family, I have our own internal affairs to deal with,” Florian proclaims, rising. “I can’t be bothered to get muddied in your little ego boost.” 

“You’re one to talk about an ego,” he retorts. “And since when have you cared about getting your hands dirty?” 

“Even I am not willing to stoop to your kind of filth.” 

“Can you stoop at all, or are you just as old and wound up as your dad?” 

“At least I was close enough to my father to gain his recognition.” Florian is already sauntering away. With his back to Montgomery, he holds up his pendant and swings it carelessly around. “Remember, between the two of us, I’m the only one who has talent to recognize.” 

He glares at Florian’s retreating figure like he might secretly be a fire-type that could burn a hole through the guy. After standing stone still, stewing in his own fury for half a minute, he realizes he didn’t even get to try and blackmail him. A few curses run through his head. Could he still try to hunt Florian down and blackmail him? By now, he has to be surrounded by guests. There’s no way he’ll be able to extort him quietly. Unfortunately, he needs a new plan. 

What else can he do? Perhaps he should talk up Torquil instead. The pignite has always been more agreeable and, quite frankly, a bit of a pushover. It wouldn’t take much for Montgomery to convince him to help out. 

But would Torquil’s help even be helpful? Probably not. Torquil has never impressed his father; if anything, the opposite is true. He might even go so far as to say that Father is less impressed with Torquil than with himself. 

Okay, so Torquil is a no-go. What now? 

He runs through his head a list of all the influential people he knows, contemplating which are most likely to help him. His siblings? Not a chance, they love having him around as the disgraceful sibling so they can redirect Father’s ire to him. They’ll never help make a name for him. His mother? No, she’d sooner faint than support anyone Father might disapprove of. Any other people of affluence he knows aren’t friendly with either him or Father to make much of a difference. At this point, it seems asking for someone to put in a good word for him is a deadend. 

If he can’t have someone talk him up, he needs to talk himself up. But he’s tried that already. Several, several times. None of his pitches have impressed his father. Words don’t get through to him, not like actions do. If he’s going to stand out tonight, he needs to do something spectacular that even his father can’t ignore. He needs to make a statement. He needs to prove the Alcott family to be the best, and he needs to prove that he’s worthy of it. He needs to do something that will make Florian, his father’s most beloved not-son, pale in comparison. 

Staring at the bench where Florian had sat mere minutes ago, deep in thought, something inside Montgomery’s brain finally clicks. 

That’s it! 

If Florian won’t voluntarily help him, he’ll do it involuntarily instead. Tonight, Montgomery is going to make Florian look like a fool at his own grand party. He’ll smear the Callahan name in the mud, elevate the Alcott’s, and show Father that he is better than Florian in every way. That way, Father will have to give him the crest. 

With his new plan taking shape, he storms into the mansion with newfound resolve. Either people see the fiery determination in his eyes, or they recognize him as one of the Alcotts and don’t want to risk offending him, because they part like he’s sliced through them. Even Torquil jumps back when he marches past. 

His eyes catch a glimpse of that slim, green bastard in the crowd. With tenacity in his every step, he picks up the pace. 

He shouts, “Florian!” 

Curious murmurs rise from the room as everyone’s conversations die down. Hundreds of eyes train themselves on Montgomery, before flicking to the object of his outrage. Florian, still facing away from him, sighs heavily. He turns and fixes Montgomery with an exasperated look. 

The crowd parts even more than they already were, leaving Florian in the middle of the room. Montgomery, still at the top of the stairs, begins to make his way down. 

“Why are you shouting like a lost child?” Florian demands, regarding him with cool indifference. “Do you need me to hold your hand and escort you to your father?” 

A series of chuckles flutter up from the guests. Florian’s decisive wit can land devastating blows. Maybe esteemed nobles have gone home with their titles revoked in shame because of his quick insults. But Montgomery isn’t here to fight a battle of words; he’s not suicidal. He’s here for a battle, plain and simple. 

With a quick glance around the room, he finds Father. The samurott is up on a balcony with a group of aristocrats, glowering down upon him. He swallows his nerves and focuses on Florian. 

“I’m here to challenge you to a duel of honor, in the Alcott family name,” he proclaims, stepping onto even ground with Florian. He can’t help the smug smile that comes with his next words. “For disrespecting my father’s affections for you by not returning it.” 

Quiet gasps escape some patrons, and Florian’s eyes flare for an instant before returning to their neutral facade. Montgomery’s grin grows wider. That’s right, he won’t hesitate to use things told to him in confidence against you, Florian! Maybe you should’ve helped out when you had the chance! 

Of course, Florian always knows just what to say. “The only reason I might hold back my affections for your father is out of sympathy for you. I imagine it must be incredibly painful for your father to ignore you in favor of someone who isn’t even family.” 

More gasps, louder this time. He grits his teeth. The longer they use words, the more of an advantage Florian has. He needs to end this and get on with the duel, now. 

Unsheathing his scalchop shells, he points one at Florian. “You. Me. Duel for honor. Now.” 

“Always so impatient,” Florian sighs, like he’s entertaining an unruly child. Taking a battle stance, he says, “But as host, I suppose it would be rude not to indulge.” 

Montgomery doesn’t wait for him to make the first move. Summoning powers deep inside him, he shoots water directly at Florian’s chest. Florian stands still, even as the attack barrels toward him, as if he’s just waiting to get hit. But in a sudden blur of green, he vanishes along with the guest standing behind him. Montgomery’s attack hits the wall. 

Florian reappears with the guest in tow, his speed blinding. In a flash, he retaliates with a powerful move that Montgomery doesn’t recognize. All he knows is that it must be a grass-type move, because it hurts like _hell_. 

Montgomery tumbles to the floor, skidding to a painful halt against the marble. His skin burns from the slide, torn and bleeding in the slightest. A quiet hiss of pain escapes him, but thankfully, no one notices. They’re all too preoccupied marvelling over Florian.

An astonished patron gasps, “He just saved that guest, dodged, and landed a blow in one move!” 

Another adds, “That’s the Callahan patriarch for you. Anything less would be a disappointment!” 

Montgomery props himself on a knee, already struggling to stand. This is not good. Whatever move Florian used was strong. He might not be able to take another hit like that. Refusing to go down so easily, he pushes himself to his feet. Florian hasn’t made a move to approach him, opting to stand at a distance and study him coldly. 

“Well?” Florian demands, having the audacity to look bored. “I thought I’d be getting a duel, not a punching bag.” 

Scowling, he leaps into action. Gripping tighter to one of his scalchops, he channels energy into it to create a blade of water. Diving at Florian, he raises his arm high, preparing to strike him down. But when he slashes downward, Florian is no longer there. 

He’s behind him. 

He realizes this too late, and he doesn’t even have time to turn before Florian slams him into the ground. 

He falls, hard. The taste of blood stings in his mouth. Sounds from the room suddenly grow hazy and disoriented, far away. He tries to rise. He can’t tell if he’s succeeding or not. All sense of direction has gone to hell as the world spins around him and his head weighs ten times the normal amount. 

When he’s turned on his back, he’s not sure if it’s by his own doing or by someone else’s. He glares up at the blurry figure of Florian, who stares down at him with shadows cast over his face. 

“Just stay down,” Florian says, quiet enough that surely, no one else can hear. Montgomery thinks he can hear a hint of pity in there, too. That makes his blood boil. “It’s for your own good.” 

His rage spikes, and in a fury, he lunges out with his scalchops slashing. Florian evades effortlessly, dodging and ducking from every swipe. No matter how Montgomery hacks and slashes, his attempts always turn up futile, his struggles always prove fruitless. Useless, useless, _useless_ —

Florian must decide he’s had enough. With a sharp spin, he lashes out with his tail, hitting Montgomery with that same, crippling move. Blown back, Montgomery can only brace himself before he slams into the wall. He hears the exclamations and cries from the guests pierce his ears. His head throbs. 

Slumping, his body goes limp. Keeping his eyes open is a struggle enough. There’s no way in hell he can stand and fight. 

He catches his father’s gaze. There’s nothing but disappointment and disdain. 

Florian regards him for another moment to see if he’ll try and get up. When he decides there’s a fat chance of that, he turns to the guests in the room and begins to speak. 

“My love for the Alcotts knows no bounds. I invited them to my ascension because I could not imagine celebrating without them, my dear companions.” He’s laying the flattery on thick, enrapturing his audience with his words. Every perfectly crafted phrase is delivered like poetry to bend the room to his vision. “But clearly, my love is not returned.” 

Montgomery can’t even try to interrupt, to derail him from where he’s headed. A pit of dread sinks in his stomach. 

“The Alcotts have come to my home, on the day of my ascension, in an attempt to make a mockery of me,” he laments, his tone conveying no deception. He’s gotten better at acting since childhood. “There is no limit to my feelings of betrayal. I’ve always thought of them as a pillar of righteousness in our community. Needless to say, I expected better of them tonight.” 

Father’s eyes flash with indignation. It’s not directed at Florian. 

“So, it’s with a heavy heart that I must ask them to leave,” he proclaims, turning to face Montgomery once more. His eyes are dark. The pendant that bears his crest glitters in the light. “I have no room for disrespectful families in my estate.” 

Just like that, everything Montgomery tried to accomplish tonight has been turned on its head. Shaming the Callahans and elevating the Alcotts morphed into the opposite. The surrounding patrons are regarding him with disgust while revering Florian with sympathy and admiration. 

Somehow, from so far away, he still manages to hear the loathing in his father’s voice as he says, “It’s time to go.” 

Nursing wounds is not easy in a bumping, unsteady carriage. Especially when no one will help. 

Montgomery has cleaned all his cuts and scrapes and has eaten enough healing berries to make his headache go away. He’s clear-minded again, but there’s still something cloudy inside him. It churns like a storm brewing. But it’s nothing compared to whatever is brewing inside Father. 

The family knows better than to talk when Father gets into one of his moods. One misspoken word or misplaced tone will spark his anger like you’ve never seen anger before. They know even better to avoid associating with the object of his anger: right now, that’s Montgomery. That’s why everyone keeps their eyes on the floor and steadily refuses to offer him any aid as he clumsily wraps bandages around his arm. 

Driving over a massive pothole makes him lose his grip on the bandages. The drop to the floor and roll themselves out across the carriage. Outside, the stoutland driver chuckles, “Sorry.” 

When he dies and goes to Hell, the only thing he’ll hear is that stupid stoutland on loop. 

He bends down to pick up the bandage, hiding a wince of pain behind his neutral mask. The wrappings he’s already done are loose and disordered. Unable to suppress his scowl, he unwinds them to start anew. 

Apparently, scowling was the wrong thing to do. Or, maybe it’s just making any facial expression at all. Regardless, Father’s eyes turn to him and sharpen like they’ve locked onto a target. The stiffness in the carriage increases tenfold. 

“You dare show your anger?” His father seethes, eyes blazing. Montgomery drops his head and stops winding the bandages. Any movement could set him off further. “You think you have the right to be angry?” 

He swallows the lump in his throat. It comes back, dry. 

“None of you have the right to be angry!” Father roars, slamming his fist into the wall. It jostles the carriage more than any rock has. Carefully, Montgomery masks how much the shaking hurts his injuries. “We should’ve sealed ourselves as allies to the new Callahan patriarch tonight! Instead, my incompetent, idiotic, _useless_ family have botched every simple request I have given them and have made fools of me!” 

He doesn’t need to glance at his siblings to know they’re looking at the ground, deferential. He doesn’t need to see his mom to know she’s holding back tears. 

Father suddenly grips his arm, right where the marble floor had scraped it bloody. Montgomery clenches his jaw to avoid making a sound. 

“And you!” Father yanks him to the floor, snarling down on him. Montgomery knows better than to meet his gaze. “Challenging the Callahan patriarch to a duel? Humiliating me with your incompetence? _Losing_?! Did I not tell you to avoid being yourself tonight?!” 

Mongtomery doesn’t know whether he’s supposed to answer or not. He closes his mouth tight and hopes he’s made the right choice. 

Wrong. Father tightens his grip, shaking him. “Answer me, boy!” 

Montgomery’s words come out rushed and choked. “Yes, father.” 

“Why is it that you fail in every task I give? The one area you have not yet failed in is being a disappointment! What use do I have for a son who brings me nothing but trouble?” 

“I’m sorry, father.” 

“Father this, father that! Don’t you have anything more clever to say?” 

If he says anything clever, he’ll get out of this carriage with more wounds than he got in with. His mind scrambles for something to say, something to appease Father with, but he’s never given the chance. Father pounds on the window of the carriage, shouting to the driver, “Stop the cart, stop right now!” 

For once, the driver doesn’t have anything daft to say. He stops at once, everyone inside jolting at the sudden halt. Father kicks the door open, ripping the bandages off Montgomery and flinging him outside. He hits the ground, hard, knocking the air out of his lungs. Expecting his father to step out after him to teach him a lesson, he hastily tries to rise. The palm of his hand slips in the mud, and he falls again. 

He hears his father scoff behind him, unamused and bitter. The sound comes from the carriage; his father hasn’t exited like he thought he would. Hesitantly, Montgomery turns to face him, terrified by a look of rage he’s never seen in his father before. This anger is different from his usual kind. It’s the anger of a man who’s been pushed past his limits. 

“From today onward, you are no longer my son,” his father proclaims, stern. Montgomery feels those words stab into his bones like ice. 

Mouth dry, he flounders, “Father, I…” 

“Whose father am I?! Not yours!” He snaps, gnashing his teeth. “You have been revoked of the Alcott name; you are banished! Now, get out of my sight!” 

Without a word, Father motions for the driver to carry on. He slams the door behind him as the carriage begins to rumble down the road. In shock, Montgomery can do nothing but watch the cart roll away. 

Did that just happen? Is this real? 

It can’t be. Right? 

He stares, paralyzed, at the family crest etched into the back of the carriage. It grows farther and farther from him with every second. 

Frantically, Montgomery staggers to his feet. Ignoring the aches and pains in his body, he races to catch up with the cart. 

“Father! Father, wait!” He cries, leaping onto the side of the carriage, gripping tight to what little handholds he can find. The mud between his fingers makes his hands slip; he fights to hang on. “Let me make it up to you! I’ll do anything, _anything_!” 

Father grips his wrist like he wants to shatter the bone. 

“Then,” he hisses, eyes dark, “restore your family’s honor by defeating Zekrom.” 

Montgomery’s mind goes blank. He wants him to… what? 

He wants him to beat Zekrom? The legendary, indestructible, bloodthirsty dragon can’t be beaten by a mere dewott. It could conjure up a single storm cloud and kill him with one measly bolt of lightning! It has already demolished cities and burned down acres of forests. Montgomery doesn’t stand a chance against a beast like that. 

“Zekrom?” He repeats, still gaping. “But—but, I’ll die!” 

His father narrows his eyes. “Then so be it.” He shoves him off the carriage. 

Montgomery goes tumbling down a steep slope, stabbed by twigs and rocks the whole way. With a mouthful of grass and his fur coated in mud, he eventually crashes into a thorny bush, stopping there. Disoriented and breathless, he stares at the stormy sky above him for a few long minutes, still in shock. It takes a long while for him to be fully aware again. When he reaches that point, though, he wishes he never did. 

Every inch of his body is covered in sharp, stinging pain. Drying mud clings to his fur uncomfortably and leaves behind an insufferable itch. The injuries he had so pain-stakingly cleaned are now covered in grass and dirt. To top it all off, his stomach growls, reminding him that he never got a chance to eat at the party. 

The true dread of his situation doesn’t settle in until right about then. 

He has no money. No food. No shelter. No allies. And if he ever wants to return to his family, to gain the family crest, he has to defeat a god. 

Closing his eyes, Montgomery wishes he’d made that duel with Florian a duel to the death. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mott: Beat Zekrom??? But?? I'll die????
> 
> Mott's dad: then perish
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read my work so far! I hope you're enjoying it. I plan to update every Wednesday, so look out for me then!


	3. Exile

Never once has Montgomery had to borrow money. He looks at the sack of gold Torquil offers him with visceral disdain. Maybe even nausea. 

“I know it’s not much,” Torquil says apologetically, wincing in the slightest as he adds, “My father wouldn’t allow me to spare much more. He’s pretty insistent on, uh. Not helping you out. After what happened.” 

Montgomery is incredibly appreciative of the reminder. Please, Torquil, by all means, recount the entire tale of how he’s been iced out of every social circle that matters! So far, the only people who have been willing to talk to him are Torquil, Florian, and commoners. Those last two, he’s even less thrilled about than with Torquil. 

Florian contributed a small pouch of gold pieces as well, although not without a snooty reminder to not spend it all frivolously. Why the guy is even here, Montgomery has no clue. Maybe he’s relishing in Montgomery’s downfall, watching him scrounge handfuls of coins together just to purchase food and basic travelling supplies. Everytime he approaches a townsperson to buy goods, Florian is over his shoulder critiquing every choice he makes. Like right now. 

“Those apples are already bruised,” Florian sniffs, turning his nose up at the merchant’s crate of fruit. Waving a hand dismissively, he orders, “Put them down.” 

Grumbling, Montgomery throws them down. The merchant curses him out while reorganizing their shitty apples. 

“Look for some of better quality. They’ll last longer,” Florian insists. Maybe, on a better day, he’d appreciate Florian’s advice. Right now, he kinda just wants to sock him in the jaw. Nodding to another merchant’s table, Florian beckons him and Torquil over. “This way.” 

Torquil bounds happily along. Montgomery sulks behind. 

Getting to the next merchant’s table isn’t easy. This place is crowded, with common people pressing up against him on all sides. They’re sweaty and hot and sticky. Everyone seems to be screaming and something around here smells like rotten cheese. The closest Montgomery has ever been to experiencing this kind of filth is when they were kids and Torquil tackled him into a mud puddle. 

Or, maybe when his father threw him down a hill just yesterday. 

That thought instantly turns his sour mood even worse. Someone’s baby is wailing in his ear, and he’s itching to tell their parent to shut it up. The way his day is going, he just wishes everyone would shut up. Better yet, they could all just disappear. 

Florian directs him to some apples that are supposedly better, but to Montgomery, they look exactly the same. Torquil nods in approval and admiration, like Florian just found a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. 

“These look great, Florian!” Torquil praises, as if Florian grew them himself. Rubbing his stomach thoughtfully, he mumbles, “Maybe I’ll buy some…” 

Montgomery buys the apples and stares down at them. They’re dull and unappetizing. 

“You look like death. It’s depressing,” Florian sighs, as if this is all a travesty for _him_. He can’t stop himself from glaring. Turning to him, Florian says, “Listen, getting you banished from your family was not my intent, but I had to respond to your challenge if I wanted to keep my family’s name in the good graces of the public. So just keep in mind when you’re looking for someone to blame: this all started with you.” 

He stares at Florian like he might be able to burn a hole in his big, fat head. 

“Zekrom is unbeatable,” Florian oh-so-helpfully reminds, rubbing his pendant. “I know you’re eager to get your family’s crest, but it’s a lost cause. You should start thinking of other ways to support yourself.” 

Montgomery clenches a fist. 

“Yeah!” Torquil agrees, already taking a bite of one of his own apples. Juice dripping down his mouth, he says, “You could learn a trade or become a merchant. You could do pretty well for yourself—like these people here.” 

The thought of being anything like these people makes the contents of his stomach threaten to rise up. 

“I think you could be really happy here, man,” Torquil rambles, as oblivious as ever. Florian scoffs at the juice running down his face and whips out a handkerchief for Torquil to use. Wiping his face, Torquil states, “This way, you’d be out of your family’s expectations. You could do whatever you want. The sky’s the limit for you now!” 

“Easy for you to be so optimistic,” Montgomery snaps, tossing his sack of apples over his shoulder as he makes his way toward a merchant with traveling gear. “You haven’t been kicked out. You’ve actually gotten your family crest. The sky's the limit for you; I’m stuck here on the ground with all these—” He shudders at the sight of a peddler with dirt all over their hands— “commoners.” 

“What, this old thing?” Torquil says, taking a look at his family crest. He shrugs. “Truth is, I only wear it around to keep my old man happy. I don’t care about it too much.” 

The way Torquil talks about it makes it sound like it’s a funny little sticker and not an emblem of insurmountable respect and recognition. 

“I think,” Torquil begins, “you might be happier if you cared a little less about your crest, too.” 

Montgomery turns on his heel to snarl at him. “And I think you two should get lost. I didn’t invite you two out here, did I? Scram, get out!” 

Florian rolls his eyes. “You’re being immature, as usual.” 

“And you’re being a prick and Torquil is being an idiot. Fantastic, it’s just like old times!” Montgomery spits, smiling ruefully. Torquil flinches but says nothing. Turning his back on them and marching away, he barks, “Get lost. I don’t want or need your help.” 

Montgomery storms away, not bothering to check over his shoulder and see if the others left. He knows how it’ll play out: Torquil will be reluctant and Florian will leave without a word, ordering Torquil to follow him. The pushover will flounder for a bit, and then he’ll choose who he follows. It better not be Montgomery, or Torquil is going to get punched. 

He reaches the merchant with traveling supplies, dropping his bag of apples on the floor. As he searches for what he wants to buy, his eyes just happen to glance back. Both Florian and Torquil are gone. 

Fine. Good! He meant what he said, he doesn’t want or need them around. They’d just slow him down and grate on his nerves. Getting them off his back was the first step in actually getting something done today. Without them, it’s just him on his quest to beat Zekrom. 

Just him. Just how he wants it. 

He directs his gaze back to the travel gear the merchant is selling. He’ll need a bag, for sure, to hold medicines and other medical supplies. On that note, he’ll need healing items, because the wounds he got from his duel haven’t quite patched up yet. A tent of some sort might be necessary if he can’t afford to sleep in an inn every night. Speaking of that, he’ll need to find a way to make money to buy food and other necessities… 

As he’s pondering this, he almost doesn’t feel his money pouch slide off his belt. But he does, and the moment he turns, he’s met with the retreating form of a pansear, clutching the bag.

“Hey!” Montgomery shouts, releasing his bag of apples to chase the thief. “Stop! Give that back!” 

Really. The moment he sets off on his own, he’s pick-pocketed. How bitterly hilarious. 

He dashes after the culprit, reaching out and nearly grabbing them by the scruff of the neck. But before he can lay a hand on them, the pansear leaps into the air, clinging to a building wall. Like a spider, the crook crawls up the wall with ease, his money pouch dangling from their tail. When the pansear reaches the roof, they toss the bag into their hand, wave it tauntingly, and race away. 

There’s no way he can climb that wall like they did, but he can guess where they’re headed. Along the side of the building, there’s a narrow alleyway. They must be using it to make their escape. He hurries there. 

Shoving past people and carts and boxes, he leaps over at least a dozen obstacles before the alleyway comes into sight. As much as he’d like to make a beeline for it, there’s a huge cart full of flour bags blocking the way. A handful of merchants scratch their heads and try to figure out how to cram this giant wheelbarrow into that tiny alley. 

He doesn’t have time for this. Every second that passes lowers his chances of getting his money back. That money pouch is all he has left. If he doesn’t get it back, he can kiss his already slim chances of beating Zekrom goodbye. 

Running straight for the cart, he barrels past the merchants that try to stop him. Lunging into the air, he lands on top of the bags, flour rushing out in a cloud of white dust. Disgruntled shouts and complaints lash out at him, but he ignores them in favor of sliding back on the ground. Tucking and rolling, he races the rest of the way into the alley. 

He waves away dust from the streets and coughs as he stumbles to a stop in the narrow passageway. The tall building blocks out the sunlight, casting cold shadows on him. He shivers, raking his eyes over every surface in the alley. There’s no sign of the pansear anywhere. Did they already escape? Or could they really not have come this way? Where else would they have gone? 

A sound makes him turn. In the far end of the alley, the sewer cover rattles shut. Montgomery grins. 

Dashing over, he bends to lift the metal grate. It’s heavier than he anticipated, but with a determined heave, he tosses it aside. He sees a shadow inside scurry away. 

“Hey!” He yells, jumping down. The ground is slimy and damp where he lands. He grimaces, but presses on. “Get back here!” 

The sewer somehow smells worse than the marketplace, but it’s abysmally quiet. Only the sound of rhythmic dripping echoes through the chamber. His footsteps and his breathing are so loud in comparison, he wonders how he can’t hear the thief. They can’t be that far ahead. They must be hiding. 

That thought renews his resolve. If they’re hiding, then they have nowhere else to go. He’s going to find them, beat them, and get his money back if it’s the last thing he does. Nodding with conviction, he hurries around the corner only to get kicked straight in the face. 

He staggers back, holding his nose and glaring at his attacker. Surprisingly, it’s not the pansear, as he expected; rather, it’s a panpour. Before he can gather his bearings, the panpour swings a fist at him. In the nick of time, he dodges, feeling the rush of air from their attack prickle his fur. Equipping his scalchop, he slashes at his attacker, striking their face. The panpour falls back, holding their bloody cheek. 

From the corner, a rush of flames burn toward him. He douses them with a quick jet of water just in time to see the pansear jump at him from the steam. Swiping his scalchop at them, he cuts their face just like he did with the panpour. He grins. At this rate, he’ll get his money back in no time at all. 

That, of course, is the cue for everything to go very, very wrong. 

A vine whips out at his ankles, tripping him. Slamming to the ground on his back, he coughs out a lungful of air from the impact. The panpour and pansear giggle and snort like wily ghouls. From the shadows, a pansage struts out, tossing his money bag in their hand. They sneer down at him with yellow teeth. 

“Nice try, pretty boy,” the pansage taunts, their eyes glinting in the dark. “But you ain’t gettin’ this back.” 

From the ground, he rasps, “I’m gonna kick the shit out of you.” 

They promptly kick the shit out of him instead. 

He doesn’t know how long he laid in that musty sewer for. A couple of minutes? Several hours? All he knows is that he blacks out a few times, and by the time he’s somewhat clear-headed, the light filtering down from the surface is dim. The air has a new chill to it and the stench is somehow worse. If he doesn’t want to throw up and make this awful day downright rotten, he needs to get out. 

Leaving the sewer is somehow worse than entering it. The fact that he’s coming back empty-handed has a lot to do with it. So do his injuries, both old and new. Staggering to the surface is a long, arduous process. When he finally does make it, he just about passes out. Again. 

Laying on his side, in an alleyway, in the dirt, he struggles to maintain consciousness. His eyes keep drooping closed, opening only with great and strenuous effort. With nothing to do but press on, he does just that. His movements are mechanical and dead. 

Shuffling, too exhausted to walk in any way that doesn’t involve dragging his feet, he makes his way back into the marketplace. It’s relatively empty, now, save the merchants closing down for the night. When they see him, they quickly avert their gaze. Some of them even pick up their pace and hurry away. He’d let out a bitter laugh if he had the breath for it. Common people are looking down on him now. Wonderful. 

It’s then that he remembers that he still has one measly possession left: the apples. Even if they’re dull and tasteless, he’ll take them. He might even cry tears of delight and relief to see those bland looking apples. He’s disgusted at how low he’s already fallen. 

But that disgust pales in comparison to the utter helplessness he feels when he returns to see no apples waiting for him. 

He lost his chance of gaining the family crest. He lost his place in the Alcott family. He lost the money he had to shamefully borrow. And now he’s lost a bag of apples he didn’t even want. 

If his father saw him like this, there’s no way he’d allow him back into the family—whether or not he beat Zekrom. 

It takes a few hours before he’s at the edge of the town. Most of the journey is a blur. He’s just pulling one foot in front of the other, mindless. He doesn’t know where he is or where he’s going, and he’s not about to submit himself to a commoner to ask directions. He treks, aimless, into the dark wilderness. 

By the time the sun has completely gone down, he’s in some valley. There’s not a town in sight. No stars and no moon light his path, as a heavy cover of clouds darkens the night sky. His innate connection to water tells him it will rain soon, because why wouldn’t it. At this point, he’s given up on having anything decent happen today. 

When the rain begins to fall, it’s in small, light droplets. It’s not enough to wash the blood and mud and stink from his fur. He pauses, for a moment, in his robotic trudging, to glance around at his surroundings. The valley is open, with no visible shelter to take when the storm eventually picks up. But there is a river that cuts through the land, flowing steadily enough to be relatively clean. That will have to do. 

He steps into it, unbothered by the ice cold temperature. Wading in deeper, he walks out until the water level reaches his waist. The rain has picked up a bit by now, disrupting the smooth surface of the river. He watches it for a moment, as if in a trance. Then, he plunges himself under. 

It doesn’t feel particularly good to get the muck and filth off himself. It’s just a feeling that passes through his hollow self, gone in an instant. He opens his eyes to watch the water rush away from him. It’s dark and murky under here, with not much noise. For the first time all day, he feels a semblance of peace. He wishes he could stay down here forever and float away with the current. He’ll have to come up for air eventually. But maybe he shouldn’t. 

Just as he’s contemplating everything and nothing, a flash of light snaps him out of it. He looks up to see the surface of the water even more distorted than before, the rain pounding down on it. Another burst of light fills his vision, almost blinding. Breaking through the surface, he takes a deep breath and looks at the sky. 

Thunder and lightning crash in the sky like a battle of the gods, electricity crackling through the inky black sky. Powerful gusts of wind blow through the valley, ripping blades of grass from their roots. The rain batters him, almost hard enough to be hail, and he wonders for a moment how the storm got here so fast. 

Then there’s a roar that splits the sky, and he doesn’t wonder anymore.

The massive, monstrous body of a black dragon tears through the clouds, blue volts sparking around it. Its tail lights up the night like a blaze of fire, charging the air around him. It’s almost hard to breathe. It’s as if the electricity it emits is stealing the oxygen from his lungs. Raising a frightening wing, Zekrom summons a bolt of lightning to strike a nearby tree. Immediately, it goes up in flames.

He suddenly understands why it’s so easy for Zekrom to demolish all those cities. One wave of its wing and it can rain Hell down on its foes. All that information, however, is background to the realization bursting in his brain: he can end this all right now. This misery, this exile, he can finish it once and for all. Zekrom is practically presenting itself to him on a silver platter. He would be an idiot not to take advantage of this opportunity. 

Leaping out of the water, he shakes himself off. His fur sticks up in weird ways, so he tries to smooth it out. He can’t be looking like a lunatic when he challenges this thing. This is his moment, dammit! 

“Zekrom!” He shouts, his voice lost in the wind and thunder. The dragon continues ravaging the valley, paying him no heed. Chasing after it, he bellows, “ _Zekrom_!” 

He shoots a jet of water at the beast for good measure. It splashes harmlessly against the creature’s side, but it makes Zekrom turn to face him. Based on the way today has gone, he’ll take even the smallest victories. 

Advancing on the dragon with his head held high, he proclaims, “Fight me, you big bastard!” 

Zekrom looks down on him with no discernable expression. 

“Come on!” The wind whips at his fur, as if trying to tug him away from the challenge. Rain beats down on him, and he slips in the mud once, but he doesn’t fall. He keeps his head up to glare at the legendary. “Let’s go!” 

Zekrom just stares. For a moment, he worries that it’s just going to turn around and leave him in the downpour. Chasing after such a fast creature while the storm pushes him back would not be easy. Luckily, the dragon doesn’t retreat. 

Unluckily, it swoops down. Right at him. 

He braces himself, taking a firm battle stance with his scallops gripped in each hand. If it comes to dying or living without his family crest, he’d rather die. He’ll fight with every ounce of strength in his body and bring honor to the Alcott family name. Zekrom rushes closer and closer, gaining speed with every second. That’s when he realizes for the first time just how _big_ the thing is, bigger than anything he’s ever faced before. It doesn’t make him hesitate. Not one bit. 

He reminds himself that this is what he wanted when the dragon begins to charge up with volts of lightning. 

Charging the beast head-on, Montgomery raises his scalchops and pours energy into them. He musters every scrap of power he has, even more than he used against Florian, pushing his limits. He doesn't care if it strains his body. If he’s going to beat this thing, he needs to be at his strongest. 

Closer and closer, faster and faster, Zekrom closes in. They’re so close that Montgomery can see the details of its scales, the sharpness of its fangs, the lightning in its eyes. The electricity crackling around it is so strong that it makes his fur stand on end. It even seems to burn the air. 

And then, all that electricity rushes out toward him. 

Instinctively, he throws his arms up to block, even though he knows it won’t do any good. It strikes him, coursing so viciously through his veins that they might be ripping apart. His muscles clench and tear and writhe; he bites his tongue so hard blood pours out. Something smells like burning flesh. 

Oh, yeah. He’s that something. 

When the attack finally stops, after seconds or hours, Montgomery is staggering back. Not on his own accord. Sparks still shoot out of him, making his muscles jump. His vision is spotty and he desperately tries to blink the dark spots away before Zekrom reaches him. But his vision never clears; before he can even take a breath, he’s bodily knocked back into the river. 

Plunging under, he feels the air escape his lungs in droves. The water is murky around him, just as dark as the growing spots in his eyes. With equal parts horror and resignation, he realizes that he’ll die this way. 

The last thing he sees before blacking out is the rush of bubbles from his lungs and the crashes of lightning in the sky. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mott really is just having all of 2020 in one day
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! If you're enjoying it, please look for this story every Wednesday. Also, if you'd like to ask a question or even poke fun at Mott's misery, feel free to leave a comment! They always make me smile :) 
> 
> Have a great day!


	4. Meet Lenny

Surprisingly, he wakes up. It would be a pleasant surprise if the bed he was on wasn’t so unpleasant. 

Blinking blearily at the world around him, he takes a few moments to adjust. He’s in a small room, far too small for his tastes, lying in a straw bed. The wooden walls and floors suggest he’s in a cottage of some sort. There’s a small bookshelf with ratty books against the wall, and a poorly made vase resting on a chipped end table. The rug beside the bed looks scratchy and uncomfortable. 

He’s not in much better shape than his surroundings. At the very least, all his injuries have been cared for. Electric burns marr his skin, wrapped carefully in bandages. He tries to move, but the motion shoots stinging pain throughout his entire body, and he falls back. The impact makes him wince. 

As he waits for the pain to subside, he glares at the ceiling. How is he supposed to beat Zekrom now? The dragon was already unbeatable, but now he’s got all these injuries weighing him down. He doesn’t have time to recover; he needs to return to his father’s good graces as soon as possible. 

Just as he’s considering scrounging together some cash and hiring some cheap mercenaries to do the job for him, the rickety door swings open with a loud _creak._ His head shoots up to see a swadloon waddling in with a bowl of soup. The swadloon, in turn, jumps at the sight of him awake and drops the bowl on the floor. 

“Oops!” The bug laughs, his tone absolutely delighted in spite of the mess on the floor. “Silly me! I oughta clean that up, though—” 

As soon as he bends over to pick up the bowl, he bumps right into the end table. The vase wobbles dangerously, and before Montgomery can even say a word, the swadloon bumps into it _again_ and the vase falls over. The loud shattering sound startles the bug, who quickly whirls around. 

...And then runs straight into the bookshelf, knocking several books off the shelf. 

With that same carefree country accent, the swadloon remarks, “Aw, shucks. Well ain’t that just a mess?” 

The swadloon chuckles to himself, cleaning the soup. In what was once a peaceful room, this lone bug-type managed to let all Hell loose in the span of five seconds. Montgomery trains an eye on him warily. He’s not gonna die in some dusty hovel because of a clumsy insect. 

Out of nowhere, the swadloon shoots back up. It does _not_ make Mongomery jump. 

“Pardon my manners, I haven’t introduced myself! My name’s Lenny, what’s yours?” 

When Mongtomery is certain Lenny isn’t going to accidentally knock the roof down on them, he responds, “Montgomery.” 

Lenny’s face brightens. “Montgomery? Well that’s an awfully nice sounding name! But we have some neighbors with the last name of Montgomery, and it might get a little confusing if we keep mixing you up. You might need a nickname…” 

Montgomery bristles at the thought. “No.” 

Lenny doesn’t seem to hear him, head in the clouds as he picks up the fallen books. “Mind if I call you Mott? It’s got a fun little ring to it, don’t you think?” 

Montgomery scowls, deciding he isn’t just cautious of this Lenny. He hates him. 

“Why am I here?” He demands, glaring at the back of Lenny’s head. Lenny turns, still smiling, the hostility going right over his head. “And where am I?” 

“We’re at my folk’s home, just outside the valley in Wheatfield Village. I was out picking berries last night when Zekrom attacked. I saw him knock you into the river before flying off, so I dragged you back home.” 

Having his blunders brought up again and rubbed in his face isn’t helping his mood. “Thanks.” 

He means it in a biting, sarcastic way, but that’s not how Lenny takes it. “It’s no problem! You distracted Zekrom from attacking the valley, so the least I could do was help you out, too. One blast of lightning from that guy and I’d probably go up in flames!” 

Montgomery looks out the window, seeing a measly excuse for a farm outside. Most of the crops are withered and dying, even though it’s prime time for growing. Looking out at dead fields does nothing for his grim thoughts. Last night was a disaster. One strike from Zekrom—one—was enough to take him out. How is he going to get back in the good graces with his family? 

“So, Mott,” Lenny begins, and it takes all of Montgomery’s willpower not to lose it right then and there, “where are you from?” 

Montgomery is not in a talking mood. He has been beaten. He is in a suffocatingly small room. He is sitting in a straw bed, overlooking a dead field. And an annoyingly cheerful stranger keeps calling him Mott. 

He answers, “Out of town.” 

Lenny laughs. “I guessed as much, silly. What town?” 

His lips twist downward at one corner. “Andovine.” 

A surprised exclamation escapes Lenny, and he drops the book he was putting away. “Andovine City? Oh my, you must be awfully rich.” 

He was. 

Again, he doesn’t appreciate the reminder of how far he’s fallen. 

“What’s it like, in that big city? Are there a lot of people? Big buildings? Fun things to do?” Lenny practically bombards him with questions, the dropped book long forgotten. Montgomery leans away from him, but Lenny doesn’t seem to care. His eyes shine like stars. “I bet it’s wonderful, there. I bet it’s like you’re on an adventure every day.” 

Montgomery scoffs. “Yeah. It’s like floating on clouds of cotton candy.” 

Lenny’s eyes sparkle even more. 

Barely concealing his eye roll, Montgomery looks back out the window. This guy is clearly some clueless, dense country bumpkin without an inkling of reality. Even more clearly, he isn’t worth Montgomery’s time. He should be out there tracking Zekrom right now, not cramping himself in a dusty hut. 

“Is there anything else you could tell me about Andovine? Or anywhere you’ve been?” Lenny asks, hopeful. “Is it a lot like this place?” 

Montgomery looks outside at the molding fields and hardly suppresses a grimace. “It’s nothing like this place.” 

“I thought so,” Lenny says, almost dreamily. “I bet it’s wonderful. Really, really wonderful.” 

He’s not going to sit around and gush about how sparkly and perfect everything is with this hillbilly. He has things to do, legends to beat, so on and so forth. Swinging his legs over to the side of the bed, he moves to stand up. Lenny’s eyes widen, and not in the over-eager way he’s seen too much of today. 

“Hold on, hold on—you’re in no shape to be getting up so early!” Lenny protests, trying to block him from leaving the bed. Montgomery frowns, ducking to get around him. “Don’t push yourself—” 

The moment he stands, pain shoots up his legs like his bones are on fire. Hissing, his legs buckle under him and he falls against the wall. Hastily, Lenny catches him just as he grips the end table to keep himself upright. He hates that he probably would’ve fallen without Lenny there. Every inch of his body shakes like it’s about to crumble apart. 

Every second he spends standing only compounds the pain. It feels like the flesh is being stripped from his bones. With no strength to fight back, he can only grudgingly relent as Lenny gingerly places him back in the bed. It doesn’t make him feel much better. The straw pokes his back like a dozen needles. 

When Lenny seems satisfied that he’s safely back in bed, he chides, “You oughta stay in bed for at least the rest of the day. Probably more, but I won’t push my luck. I have a feeling you wouldn’t listen, anyhow.” 

That’s the one thing Lenny’s gotten right all day. “I don’t have time to rest. I’m leaving, now.” 

“Why, you got something to do?” 

“I need to beat Zekrom.” Lenny’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull. “And I need to do it now.” 

“You need to beat—hold on, that’s not…” Lenny stumbles over his words, as if trying to wrap his head around Montgomery’s insane quest. He understands the feeling; he’s still trying to puzzle through it. Eventually, Lenny manages to land on: “Why have you got to have it done _now_?” 

Montgomery snarls before he can help it. “Why have you got to stick your nose in everyone’s business?” 

Lenny flinches back. A moment of silence interjects itself between them, and Lenny wordlessly bends over to clean the remaining mess. For a moment, Montgomery actually feels kinda bad. The guy did save him, after all. And bring him into his house, as unpleasant as it is. The way Lenny deflates in the slightest forces Montgomery to look away before this… feeling… in his chest gnaws him to death. 

He doesn’t have time to focus on it, he tells himself. He doesn’t have time to focus on anyone’s feelings or even his own. He doesn’t have time to focus on anything but Zekrom. 

Once the room is (relatively) clean, Lenny stands back up. Montgomery doesn’t know how he manages to smile, even if it’s more diluted than before. The gnawing feeling returns with a vengeance, and he has to muster up all his strength to shove it back down. 

“Get some rest,” Lenny says. Even if his tone is gentle, there’s a hint of insistence in his voice, and Montgomery knows he won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. “I’ll fix another pot of soup so you can eat something when you wake up.” 

Montgomery doesn’t acknowledge him as he leaves the room. He doesn’t think he could stomach looking at a smile when he feels so gross inside. The door quietly shuts behind Lenny, closing with a soft ‘click.’ For the first time all day, Montgomery is left alone in complete silence. Again, he mercilessly shoves down the mixed feelings that come with that. Ironically, struggling to bottle it all up makes him angry. He’s been meticulously trained by his father to contain all his emotions and never let them see the light of day. Yet, years and years of learning to school himself into carefully balanced neutrality has gone out the window after mere days of banishment. Maybe this is why his father never gave him the crest; he’s so useless he can’t even silence his emotions right. 

He casts those thoughts aside after making a mental note to work on his inadequacies in the future. Perfecting himself into the ideal son will mean nothing if he isn’t accepted into the Alcott family, and that means he needs to get back to hunting Zekrom. But where does he start? The first time he encountered Zekrom was a complete fluke; he doesn’t expect he’ll be so lucky in the future. As much as he loathes to admit it, he’s already blown his best chance at redemption. It’s going to be a lot harder to catch Zekrom, starting now. Especially because no one seems to understand its pattern. 

As far as his understanding goes, the creature seems to come and go on a whim. It’ll disappear for weeks at a time only to unexpectedly return with a vengeance. There’s no predictability to it, no method. It’s simply the depraved, bloodthirsty whims of a beast. 

Montgomery hadn’t paid much attention to all the Zekrom talk back when he was still in the good graces of his family because he found the matter boring. Right now, he’s cursing himself for it. Even the slightest hint would be better than what he has now: an empty bag, a lot of injuries, and no leads. The best he can do is ask around town and see what people have to say. A direction, no matter how misleading, is at least a start. 

With a nod of conviction, he forces himself to his feet. When the aches and pains unpleasantly remind him of their existence, he cringes but carries on. He holds himself with the dignity of the Alcott family name to hide the discomfort of his wounds. The one thing he can’t seem to disguise is the subtle limp in his gait, but it will have to do. 

He reaches the door, placing a hand on the knob. The sound of soft humming makes him pause. It’s terribly off-key, but that’s not why he hesitates—it’s because he realizes if Lenny catches him, he’ll be nagged back into bed. Not only would that be incredibly annoying, it would be detrimental to his mission. He has to get out of the house without being caught. 

Easy. Retracting himself from the doorway, he instead turns to the window. The grimy, smudgy window that he would rather not touch, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. Steeling his nerves, he hobbles over to the bed to climb back on it and grip the window. With a tug that strains his scraped up arms, he shoves the window open. 

It squeaks, loudly. He winces and holds still, waiting for Lenny to bust in. But nothing happens; there’s not even a sound of footsteps. Grinning triumphantly, Montgomery leaps out the window, his foot inches away from touching the earth... 

...Only to be snapped up into the air. 

Sticky, sturdy white silk wraps around his ankles, dangling him upside-down over the dead field. He struggles and wiggles in vain, trying to reach up and separate the threads from his feet. He can’t even get a hand to his ankle to try. 

“I thought I told you to rest,” Lenny says, gazing down on him reproachfully from the roof. Why is he on the roof?! Holding the other end of the white string between his hands, he chides, “You’re not gonna get any better at this rate.” 

Montgomery folds his arms and resolutely glares at the space in front of him. He knows any intimidation he exudes is impeded by the slow, comical spin of his hanging body. 

“Let me go.” 

“Are you gonna go back and rest?” 

“...Yes.” 

“No, you won’t.” 

“Let me go!” 

“Escape on your own,” Lenny orders, sitting at the edge of the roof to watch him. “If your injuries are healed enough that you can escape, you’ll be strong enough to travel. I surely won’t be able to catch you, at least.” 

He scowls at the resistance. What happened to commoners obeying every whim of the nobles? Everywhere his father goes, people practically bow to him, racing to and fro in fear of disappointing him. How can he not invoke the same response? Is this another lesson Montgomery has been failing direly? 

Before Montgomery can even think of some clever threat, he hears an unfamiliar voice clear their throat. It’s haughty and impatient, shrill and grating. Almost impressively, it annoys him even more than Lenny does. 

Lenny turns to look before he can. He’s still stuck lazily spinning; but after a few wriggles and nudges, he turns himself around to see an unfezant arching her brows at them with disdain. A bag is slung over her wing, bearing the insignia of Florian’s family. Florian must be the lord over this region. The reminder of that bastard’s existence doesn’t help his sour mood. 

Somehow raising a brow even higher up her face, she drawls, “Are you Mr. Tom Mirthwood?” 

“That would be my father,” Lenny answers with a surprising tone of apprehension. Montgomery expected him to be all sunshine and rainbows about meeting a new friend or some sappy bullshit. “Can I help you, madam tax collector?” 

“Only if you have your monthly dues.” 

“Begging pardon, ma’am, but we paid our dues yesterday,” Lenny says, his expression scrunching up with confusion. 

“Can someone please let me down,” Montgomery says. 

Lenny talks right over him. “We weren’t missing any of it, were we?” 

From her bag, she whips out a paper scribbled with numbers and names. Clearing her throat, she says, “You’re missing half of what you owe.” 

“Can someone _please_ let me down.” 

“Half?! My apologies, ma’am, I thought for sure we paid the full two-hundred gold…” 

Two-hundred gold? For this measly, dying plot of land? They’re getting ripped off. 

“The lord has changed what you owe,” she informs, pocketting the paper. “You are now expected to pay four-hundred a month.” 

Montgomery and Lenny share an incredulous look, thinking the exact same thing. It isn’t his favorite moment. Still, it would take a fool not to reach the same conclusion they both did. 

“Begging pardon, ma’am, we’re getting cheated as is,” Lenny argues, his face donning a pleading expression. She doesn’t seem moved. “You and I both know two-hundred ain’t right for this size of property, but we paid it honest because the lord keeps us safe from Zekrom. But four-hundred…” 

“Is what you owe,” she interrupts, cold. 

“We don’t have it,” Lenny says, helplessly. “We barely scraped together the two-hundred for this month.” 

The look of displeasure on her face is clear. But she quickly sweeps it away to say, “No matter, the lord will simply have to reclaim your property. Please vacate the premises by tomorrow; we’ll be demolishing the site then.” 

“What? But, ma’am—!” 

“How about you just accept what you’ve been given and leave?” Montgomery demands, impatient. The longer this goes on, the longer he stays up here, okay? Plus, he hates that he has to wiggle a bit to keep from being turned around again. “You’re lucky you’re even getting two-hundred for this shoddy piece of land.” 

“How about you mind your own business?” The tax collector sneers, her words sending his blood into a boil. “Aristocratic affairs are no place for a disowned and disgraced child, wouldn’t you agree? Or should my Lord Florian come down himself and beat some manners into you— _again_?” 

With a strength Montgomery didn’t know he had, he lunges up and rips the white thread binding his ankles to shreds. 

He hits the ground,hard, but he can’t be bothered to care. The tax collector staggers back and squawks indignantly, as if offended that he had the gall to break himself free. He stands, ready to give her a piece of his mind, but she opens her wings in a sharp motion and shoots a jet of sharp air at him. 

Before the move can make contact, it’s extinguished by a barrage of leaves. The moves cancel each other out. Just in time, too, because it looked like Lenny was exhausting himself with that one attack alone. With that, Montgomery marches right up to the tax collector. 

“All right, I wasn’t about to start a fight, but you wanted one, so here it is!” He snarls, power rushing into the scalchops he grips in his hands. At the sight of the water blades, the tax collector makes another screech of dismay. Hurriedly, she flaps her wings, taking to the air.

“I’ll be back next month, Mr. Mirthwood!” She vows. “You better have that money!” 

She flies away before Montgomery can even think to shoot a **Water Gun** at her. 

Still seething, he reluctantly sheathes his scalchops. Her words are still burning under his skin, festering and blistering. Is that what the aristocratic world thinks of him now? An unwanted, idiot son who can be treated like dirt? Mere days ago, she wouldn’t have dared to say those things to him. 

A ‘thump’ behind him distracts him from his thoughts. He turns to see Lenny has leapt off the roof, bouncing over to him. That annoyingly cheerful smile is back on his face. 

At least it makes that gnawing feeling from before go away. Just a little. 

“Mott, that was amazing! You drove her off as easy as anything,” he praises, as if he’s seen an act of a great warrior. Montgomery can’t help the way his chest puffs out a little bit. “You must be awfully strong.” 

“I am,” he responds, pleased. Then, he realizes he should probably thank Lenny for neutralizing that attack. Right? 

Before he can even muster up the shamelessness to thank a commoner, Lenny continues, “We made a pretty good team back there. You oughta take me to go beat Zekrom!” 

Montgomery makes a face. “No.” 

“Oh. In that case, you should probably go back to bed.” 

What the hell? Is Lenny seriously leveraging his freedom as a bargaining chip?!

“No,” he repeats, determined. He just drove off that tax collector; Lenny should think twice before challenging him. Standing a little straighter, he declares, “I’m leaving now. You’re not going to follow me, and you’re not going to try and convince me to stay. Understand?” 

Lenny stares at him, almost bewildered. Maybe even offended. 

A beat of silence passes them by. 

“Also, my name’s not Mott.” 

He’s immediately covered head to toe in **String Shot.**

He’ll sneak out later. When the moon is up and it’s too dark to see him, there’s no way Lenny will notice him creeping out. As much as his plan gives him comfort, it also comes with a subtle irritation. Since when did he have to sneak away from commoners? 

“So, I’ve got seven siblings: Merek, Cedany, Emaline, Isabel, Peter, Arthur, and Rose. I’m the youngest, which ain’t got as many perks as my siblings think it does,” Lenny rambles as he mends some blankets. Montgomery tries to drown him out so he can focus on sulking. “They’re all married and moved out now. They still live in town though, and they keep pressuring me to get married but at the same time they guilt me for wanting to move out? It’s confusing. Anyways…” 

He’s been at this for hours, just babbling. Doesn’t he ever get tired? Doesn’t he run out of things to say? Surely his life isn’t _that_ interesting. Although, having seven siblings sounds like a nightmare. Maybe that’s why Lenny turned out to be so weird. 

For a moment, it makes him think of his own siblings. What are they doing right now? Have they made a case for him to their father? Or were they just as happy to see him gone? He’s willing to bet on the latter. As bitter of a thought as that is, he doesn’t really harbor any resentment for them. If he was in their shoes, it’s what he’d do. They wouldn’t blame him, either. They know just as well as he does that getting Father’s approval is a cutthroat game. 

Does Lenny have to compete with seven other people for his parent’s praise? He almost finds himself asking before he remembers that he wants nothing to do with the country bumpkin who tied him to the bedpost with **String Shot**.

“Everytime I talk about leaving the town my family acts like I’m stabbing them in the back.” Lenny rolls his eyes. “As if it means I’m never coming back! They can’t blame me for wanting to travel a bit; I’ve never left the village. Ever,” Lenny states, shaking his head as he sews thread through some fabric. “My ancestors moved here from somewhere farther inland and stayed here until they died. And so did their kids. And their kids, and their kids and their kids, and… well. You get the drift.” 

On top of all of Montgomery’s grievances toward life, his nose begins to itch. He glares at the ceiling. Could he ask Lenny to take the threads off him? It probably wouldn’t do much good. He’s starting to realize that this commoner isn’t as easy to boss around as the others. 

“I know they just worry about me, especially with all this scary Zekrom nonsense going on. They don’t want me to die like so many people already have,” Lenny says, looking contemplative and solemn. “A lot of people are on edge about it. A lot of people are suffering. I think it’s great that you’re fixing to bring an end to that.” 

Montgomery is pretty surprised to be drawn into the conversation. Lenny has seemed pretty content to chatter to himself for the rest of the night, and he thought his grumpy vibes would chase off any desires to engage him. It usually does. Whenever he’s in any sort of bad mood, his father flat out refuses to speak to him until he’s neutral again. 

It takes him a moment to form a response. “...Naturally.” 

“Did you like the soup I made? You ate two bowls; you must’ve been hungry,” Lenny remarks, setting the blanket aside. 

His mouth waters slightly as he remembers the potato stew that Lenny brought him. “It was okay.” 

Lenny smiles, as if he knows some great secret. “I’m glad you liked it.” 

For a moment, silence drifts between them. It’s not tense. The quiet doesn’t hound him in anyway, but it is awkward. He surprises himself with how much he wishes Lenny would say something. 

Eventually, he can’t take it anymore and he blurts, “When are you gonna let me go?” 

Lenny folds the blanket and rises from his chair. “You should be better by tomorrow. If you stick around, I’ll make you a breakfast before you leave. It’s the least I can do for someone who helped me out so much.” 

He wonders for a moment if that remark is some veiled insult. Between the two of them, it’s clear that Lenny has helped him a lot more than he’s helped Lenny. But no matter how much he replays and analyzes Lenny’s words, he can’t find a trace of guile in them. His words are straightforward and honest. It’s a nice change of pace from the backhanded nobles he’s used to. 

He kinda likes it. 

But he hates being indebted to Lenny even worse. So, there’s no way he’s sticking around for breakfast tomorrow. 

After listening to Lenny ramble on about all the different knit stitches there are (why are there so many?!), the door to the bedroom opens only a sliver. An older swadloon pokes her head in, and upon seeing Montgomery, she quickly hides her face behind the door as if she’s unworthy of his gaze. 

_That’s_ the kind of treatment he’s used to from commoners. That’s what he’s been waiting for all day. It’s about time! 

He steadfastly ignores the way it makes his heart twinge.

The older woman says, “Lenny, you ought to get some rest. Early day in the field, tomorrow.” 

They actually use that dead old thing? No wonder they don’t have enough money to pay their taxes, they can’t grow anything in land like that. 

“Sure thing, Ma. I’ll be right out.” 

The woman nods and closes the door slowly, as if any loud noises or sudden movements will get her yelled at. Lenny stands, taking the blanket he folded and placing it in Montgomery’s lap. He places his hands on it hesitantly, giving Lenny a questioning look. 

“All our blankets had too many holes in them, so I mended this one for you to use tonight,” Lenny explains, smoothing it out over Montgomery’s lap. He mended a blanket for him? Most people he knows wouldn’t even _hand_ him a blanket. Putting out the light beside the bed, he says, “I know it ain’t much, but I hope it keeps you comfortable.” 

It’s scratchy where the stitches went in and way too thin to be considered a source of warmth. He runs his hands over it and finds his voice cracks when he replies, “It’s great.” Then, as if an afterthought, he forces himself to add, “Thanks. For everything.” 

Lenny smiles, soft and warm, and walks to the door. He opens it, foregoing any courtesies his mother had displayed when closing it. “Sleep well, Mott. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Yeah.” He swallows. “I’ll see you.” 

By the time the door is fully shut, the air in the room feels different than before. He can’t explain why. All he knows is that it feels emptier than before. Colder, too. 

Shaking his head, he forces himself to snap out of this weird trance. What is he doing! This is the first real chance he’s had all day to escape, and he’s wasting it in some imaginary world. He doesn’t have time for this! Snatching one of his scalchops, he slices the threads Lenny bound him with and frees himself from the bed. He shakes himself off and leaps to his feet, racing to the door before halting. 

He doesn’t know what the rest of the house looks like. What if this bedroom just opens up to another bedroom and he runs right into Lenny? What if he walks in on Lenny’s parents? With that horrifying thought in his mind, he spins on his heel and hastily retreats to the window. It failed him once; but this time, things will be different. 

He’s careful to open it slowly. Taking it an inch at a time, he ensures that no loud squeaks alert anyone of what he’s up to. Once it’s open enough for him to squeeze through, he throws one leg over the sill and pops himself out. 

This time, his feet touch the ground. It’s such a glorious moment he could cry. 

Freedom! Sweet, sweet freedom! 

He closes his eyes to focus on the sensations around him. The gentle breeze, the smell of grass, even the chilly night air brings joy to his heart. Finally, _finally_ , he’s one small step closer to Zekrom. With a victorious grin, he sets off to take his first steps as a free man. 

His ankle is immediately snagged. 

“Oh come on!” He protests, his arms thrashing angrily over his head as he’s held upside-down once more. Glaring up at Lenny, he demands, “Why are you even on the roof?!” 

Lenny holds up a tool that looks suspiciously like junk. “Fixing it.” 

Grouchily, Montgomery folds his arms across his chest and grumbles to himself. Stupid Lenny and his stupid bug moves and his stupid roof… 

Lenny watches him slowly twist in his dangling position for a moment before sighing. “You’re really not gonna give this up, huh?” 

“So why don’t you just let me go already?” He snaps. 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

“No.” 

“Yes!” 

“You know what, I’ll make a deal with you,” Lenny starts, and Montgomery regards him skeptically. “I’ll let you go. If! If—you take me with you.” 

Montgomery stares. “No.” 

“Yes.” 

“No!” 

“Yes.” 

Montgomery groans in frustration. There was a time, not too long ago, when a commoner like Lenny wouldn’t dare to push him around like this. Unfortunately, Montgomery is no longer in a position of power to do much about it. Which means he’s no longer in a position of power to order Lenny to do much of anything. 

“Fine! Fine,” he relents, scowling. As if the words physically hurt him, he slowly grinds them out. “You… can… come.” 

Lenny beams, letting him down. He tears the silk from his ankles and rubs them grudgingly. Lenny hops down, his face lit up like the stars. 

“Let me write a quick note to my Ma and Pa!” He cries, practically bursting with excitement as he rushes inside. “I’ll be right back! Don’t you go nowhere!” 

Montgomery rolls his eyes. Chances are, if he tried to slip away now, Lenny would still manage to catch him with that ridiculous string. Tapping his foot in the dirt impatiently, he looks up to glare at the full moon, as if beseeching it to have some mercy on him. 

It smiles back at him with its crescent-shaped glow, so Montgomery has a feeling that’s a big fat ‘no’ on the mercy front. 


	5. How to Get Rid of a Country Bumpkin

“Here, eat this!” 

Montgomery swats Lenny’s hand away without looking. “Get that out of my face; I’m not gonna eat it.” 

“It’s an oran berry. It’ll help you feel better!” 

Lenny keeps poking his face with the fruit, using a sing-song voice to try and coax him into eating it. Montgomery stares at the path straight ahead of them and wishes Zekrom would come and kill him. 

As he anticipated, bringing Lenny along was a huge mistake. So what if Lenny knows how to cook better than Montgomery ever could? So what if these berries maybe, _just maybe_ , soothe his aching? It’s not enough to distract from how annoying Lenny is. Everywhere they go, Lenny has to babble on about how “amazingly perfect” everything is. 

That rock? Fantastic! 

The lake? Gorgeous! 

The clouds? So fluffy! 

Before this, Montgomery thought he was pretty good at tuning people out. He’s had lots of practice, ignoring the dull prattling of his father’s boring allies. But Lenny takes chattering to a whole new level. He always has something to say about something. It’s driving Montgomery up a wall. Whatever happened to just being around each other in stifling silence? He does that with his family all the time! 

Not only is Lenny annoying, he’s already proven detrimental to his quest. Just yesterday, Lenny completely distracted them from their mission because he saw some flowers. They were supposed to be milling around town and gathering information on Zekrom’s possible whereabouts—which, Montgomery was doing, thank you very much—when suddenly Lenny was gone. It took him an hour of racing around town frantically searching before he found Lenny making flower crowns with some kids in a field. It wasn’t even a good flower crown. 

After travelling with Lenny for a grand total of three days, Montgomery has come to a conclusion: he can’t do it anymore. He has to get rid of Lenny, somehow, before he goes insane.

But how? 

“If you eat the berry, I won’t make you eat no more,” Lenny promises. Hah! Fat chance of that. Lenny’s been saying that all day, pressuring him to eat just one more berry each time. When Montgomery shoots him a look that says he knows better, Lenny grins sheepishly. “Well, maybe I won’t.” 

“I’m not eating it.” 

“Why not? I know you like them.” 

Montgomery sputters. “I do not!” 

Lenny holds the berry up to his mouth, making his tone light and cheery, like he’s talking to an infant. “Come on, here comes the Zekrom! Nyooooooooooom….” 

Before he can smack Lenny away again, the bushes alongside their path rustle. Out of the foliage leaps a drilbur with a bandana around their face, pointing a claw viciously at them. Montgomery shoves Lenny back to deflect the claw with a scalchop. 

Lenny yelps and the drilbur looks just as shocked. It all happened so suddenly that he almost didn’t realize what he was doing until it happened, but when his mind catches up to his body, he realizes that the drilbur in front of them is likely a bandit looking for someone to mug. And the poor bastard chose them: a water type and a grass type. This robbery won’t go well. 

Shooting power through his shell, he knocks the crook back. They stagger and fall in the dirt, the bandana flying clean off their face. Startled by the quickly turning tides, the bandit snatches their handkerchief and hastily flees the scene. 

No use in chasing them. They’re small fry, likely just some petty looter. Montgomery sighs, rolling his shoulders and sheathing his shells. The fight, over and done in an instant, wasn’t really that remarkable. It was more of a nuisance than anything. But Lenny stares at him in awe, as if he just accomplished some heroic feat. In all honesty, he isn’t sure how he feels about that. It swirls some feelings of confidence yet apprehension inside him, like he’s waiting for Lenny to suddenly take it back. No one’s ever looked at him with such pride before, not even his father. 

That last thought comes with no end of bitterness, so he hastily squashes it down. Stray thoughts like these are just another reason he needs to get rid of Lenny, fast. 

“Mott, that was fantastic!” Lenny gushes, eyes shining. “You didn’t even hesitate, you just fought them off like it was nothing! You sure are talented with this sort of thing, huh?” 

“Obviously,” he replies, shrugging. What noble’s son _wouldn’t_ be able to do at least that much? Years of tutoring and training weren’t wasted on nothing, after all. “And my name’s not Mott.” 

“You weren’t even a little scared,” Lenny proclaims, still amazed. Flushing slightly, he sheepishly admits, “It sure spooked me, suddenly getting jumped like that. Hopefully our whole trip ain’t full of scares like that.” 

Before Montgomery can remind him that they’re tracking Zekrom, who is infinitesimally stronger than some petty bandit, a light pops on in his head. One insignifiant, uncoordinated surprise attack was enough to startle Lenny. What would a more serious, more intentional attempt do? 

The gears start turning before he can stop them; not that he’d want to stop them anyway. If they’re put in a dire situation, Lenny will get scared. If Lenny gets scared, he’ll be hesitant to continue with their journey. Then, he might just resign himself off the mission. And just like that, Montgomery will be free! 

It’s a good plan. A really, really good plan, because he hardly has to do anything, he just has to wait for an opportunity to poke and prod at Lenny’s fears. Which, shouldn’t take long. How hard can it be to spook some clumsy, sheltered country boy? 

Turns out, it doesn’t take long at all. As they ascend the steep slope of the path they’re on, a dull sound rumbles through the sky. Looking up, Montgomery sees heavy clouds culminating over their heads. 

Lenny looks at the clouds with worry. “Looks like a storm is brewing. We oughta find someplace to take shelter.” 

“Shelter?” He says, incredulously. Facing Lenny with a grin, he states, “This is exactly what we’re looking for.” 

Lenny regards him with equal parts confusion and reluctance. “What do you mean?” 

Picking up his pace until he’s practically charging up the hill, he calls over his shoulder, “We’ve gotta get in the middle of that storm; it could be Zekrom!” 

It probably isn’t. Most storm encounters with Zekrom happen in a flash of lightning; there’s no warning. Chances are, this is just a regular old storm. He doubts Lenny knows that, so he’s using it to his advantage. 

Naturally, he’s right. Lenny, anxious, asks, “You think so?” 

“I don’t think, I know,” he declares, reaching the top of the hill. The storm rolls out across the land before them. Lenny eyes it nervously. “Come on, let’s get in there.” 

He takes a bold step forward, but Lenny doesn’t follow. Glancing back, he sees Lenny warily studying the sky, hesitant. He resists the urge to smirk. Easy as cake. 

“Lenny, if this is too much for you, you can just say so,” he assures oh-so-chivalrously. Lenny’s eyes snap back to him. “I know hunting Zekrom can be pretty scary business. If you decide you don’t want to do it anymore, I won’t hold it against you.” 

Lenny swallows, staring at him. The seconds pass between them silently, the only sound being the distant growl of thunder. He can practically feel Lenny’s nerves grow with the darkening clouds. Meanwhile, Montgomery is inwardly high-fiving himself. How did he not think about this earlier? This is going perfectly! 

Just as he’s starting to get comfortable in his triumphant throne, Lenny snatches his crown and says, “Actually, um. I’m fine. Let’s go.” 

Montgomery stares at him, slack-jawed. Then, he quickly shuts his mouth. 

“Awesome,” he says through gritted teeth. “That’s. So cool.” 

Maybe Lenny is going to be a little harder to scare than he thought. But no worries, no worries. He’s got this. 

He concludes, after two hours of trekking through the torrential rainstorm with Lenny still glued to his side, that he doesn’t got this. 

Three hours later, he gives up on his ruse and decides to find shelter. Unfortunately, the only adequate place seems to be some dingy bar on the outskirts of an even dingier town. The whole place looks just as dusty and rusty as Lenny’s house. 

Mud squelches unpleasantly between his toes as he stomps into the bar, Lenny right behind him. Stepping inside the equally muddy doorway, he shakes the water out of his fur. Lenny sputters and laughs when the water droplets hit his face. It makes him want to gag. 

Somehow, in their treacherous journey through the storm, Lenny stopped being scared and started having fun. He caught raindrops on his tongue and jumped in mud puddles and laughed into the blistering wind. And with every growing drop of joy in Lenny’s heart, Montgomery’s plans to scare him off washed down the drain. It was a complete, utter failure. They exit the storm opposite of how they entered it: Montgomery displeased, and Lenny elated. 

His irritation doesn’t subside when they reach shelter. The bar is more of an over glorified hovel, with splintered wooden furniture and burlap material for tablecloths. The floor is dirt and the ceiling is dripping, the lights are dim and the windows are grimy. He would even go so far as to say this place is worse than Lenny’s house, if only because of the company it hosts. 

Behind the bar, a mandibuzz fills dusty glasses with suspicious concoctions. She rasps and spits each word like it personally offended her. The few patrons at the bar are no less unsavory, with yellowing teeth and appalling stenches and repelling snarls. The air they breathe is sticky and hot and dusty, making his lungs ache for a breath of fresh air. He finds himself seriously considering walking back out into that tempest. Especially when every patron in the bar turns to glare at them. 

Other than letting the cold air in, Montgomery doesn’t know what they did wrong. Maybe they’re just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and these thugs need someone to take it out on. Whatever it is, it makes his hackles rise in tingling suspense. He’s just about to turn to Lenny and suggest they find another spot to camp out when he catches a glimpse of the pure terror in his buggy eyes. 

And just like that, Montgomery is back in the game.

Maybe the storm couldn’t scare Lenny off, but a bunch of violent vagrants can. It was the bandit from before that spooked Lenny first, after all. Perhaps Lenny’s more scared of dangerous people, considering that he’d rarely have to deal with anyone he didn’t know in his sheltered little village. A surge of confidence shoots through him with the reemergence of his grand plan. 

Montgomery saunters up to the bar. He doesn’t have the money for a drink right now, but that’s not what he’s after, anyways. He plops himself onto a stool like he owns the place, sitting himself right between two scowling patrons. Lenny, shyly, takes a seat by him and keeps his gaze on the ground. 

“Pick yer poison,” the mandibuzz grunts, not even bothering to look at him. 

Beside Lenny is a gigalith with scars. She leers down at Lenny like she’s resisting the urge to squish him. Lenny shudders. 

“Oh, I don’t have any money,” Montgomery shrugs, earning himself a bitter glare from the bartender. Before she can snap at him to get lost, he asks, “But what’ve you got?” 

The bartender eyes him up and down, suspiciously. Her eyes linger on his fur, matted down with rain and flecks of mud, but otherwise in perfectly healthy condition. Too perfect for a mere commoner, in fact. She narrows her eyes at him as if trying to decide whether or not he’s tricking her. 

“No money, huh?” She grumbles, wiping a glass off with her wing. It doesn’t do much other than spread the smudge around. “Why do I got a feeling that ain’t the case?” 

“What’ve you got?” he repeats, smiling like he has some grand secret. “Then I’ll decide if I have any money.” 

She sizes him up again. At Montgomery’s side, Lenny shifts anxiously in his seat. The gigalith looms over him, leering viciously down on him. Nervously, Lenny jitters out a quick ‘hello.’ The gigalith pulls a face that Montgomery can’t see. Hopefully something scary. 

After a moment of maintaining his silent battle of wills with the bartender, she finally turns around. Gesturing to the measly collection on the shelf, she drones a list of what they have. It’s very, very short. Gin. Some whiskey. A couple of other bland things here and there. Nothing that Montgomery would waste his money on—if he had any. 

He scrutinizes the drinks like he’s genuinely considering it. The mandibuzz watches him with an almost eager anticipation. It’s the most emotion he’s gleaned out of her other than abject spite. Then, he flops back in his stool, sighing, “Nope, I guess I don’t have any money.” 

A displeased expression twists her features. “And why not?” 

Waving a hand dismissively, he responds, “Nothing in this place is worth my time.” 

Her eyes flare. “ _Excuse_ me?” 

That kind of anger would probably be enough to send Lenny into fits of shivering, but he’s not paying attention to the bartender. His entire focus is still on the gigalith who towers menacingly over him. After having said ‘hello’ and not gotten a reply, most people would take a hint and give up. Instead, Lenny asks her if she likes games. Montgomery could swear her eyes glint with interest, but that can’t be right. 

With a smug smile, he returns the bartender’s challenging glare with a look of nonchalance. “You heard me. Nothing in this place is worth my time. It’s a shabby, pathetic little hovel in the middle of nowhere. Why would it matter to me?” 

“If ya don’t like it, leave,” she snarls, her beak snapping sharply with her harsh words. 

Montgomery kicks his muddy feet on top of the bar. The patrons around him scowl; the mandibuzz sputters with rage. “Make me.” 

She looks about ready to shoot steam out of her ears. The other patrons aren’t far behind. At this rate, he’ll provoke an all-out bar fight. Good. If anything can scare Lenny away, it’s being ganged up on by a group of thugs. He’ll run for the hills and never come back. 

But Lenny still isn’t paying attention. Irritatingly. Lenny has pulled over the gigalith’s napkin and is drawing a tic-tac-toe board. Drawing an ‘O,’ he hands the pencil to the rock-type. She taps it against her face in contemplation. 

The mandibuzz’s feathers ruffle indignantly. At Montgomery’s other side, a gurdurr glowers at him through the thick smoke of his cigar. Montgomery wrinkles his nose in distaste. It doesn’t escape the gurduur’s attention, who blows a ring of smoke in his face in retaliation. He coughs and waves it away. 

“As I suspected, your trashy bar only attracts trashy customers.” He sneers, directing his disdain at both of them. They swell up like balloons, as if their rage is literally expanding. “This is the kind of place I wouldn’t even want to take shelter in from a storm. Right, Lenny? This place and all the people in it are complete—” 

In a flash, the gurdurr cracks a fist over his jaw, hard. He reminds himself, with equal parts pain and regret, that this is what he wanted. 

He topples off his stool and hits the ground with a loud crash. Other patrons who had been ignoring the scene now shout and laugh, crowding around for some more sick entertainment. Someone beside him yelps in fright and worry, but he doesn’t have time to process who because the gurdurr is upon him in seconds. 

Raising a meaty fist, the gurdurr slugs him straight in the nose. It’s a miracle it doesn’t break, but the hit certainly makes his face feel like shattering. Hell no! Not the face! 

Montgomery throws the fighting-type off, following up with a burst of pressurized water. It strikes the target dead in the chest, knocking his foe straight through several sets of chairs and tables. Before he can boast his victory, another patron dives for his ankles; a rufflet. Pecking at his feet with all the righteous fury a puff of feathers like that can muster, the rufflet squawks with indignation with every attack. 

Montgomery stares. Then, raising a foot, he kicks the bird aside. It flops over like a squeaky toy. 

Unfortunately, it seems the rest of the brawl isn’t going to be that easy. The gurdurr returns with a vengeance, slamming a fist down to crush him. He barely evades it, watching in horror as the ground where he once stood shatters. That could’ve been him! Where the hell is Lenny; why isn’t he helping fight back?! 

Did he leave him? 

Before he can turn to check, a meaty hand grips him by the back of the neck and lifts him into the air. He scratches at the claws throttling this thoat, struggling in vain to pry them off. In the corner of his eye, he spots the druddigon who has a vice grip on his throat. The grin on their face is dark and sinister. 

Shaking him once, they hold him out to the gurdurr and order, “Punch.” 

The gurdurr dons a nasty grin of their own, rolling their shoulders to warm up for a devastating blow. It occurs to Montgomery, right as the air is being choked out of his lungs, that he might’ve just signed his own death certificate. He needs air; the druddigon isn’t inclined to let him go soon. And if he survives near strangulation, he’s going to get beaten within an inch of his life by the gurdurr. 

He struggles. This time, fear pounds through his veins. The grip on his neck only tightens, and with it, black spots begin to form in his vision. He can barely see the gurdurr as they wind up what’s sure to be an organ-rupturing punch. 

But when the gurdurr finally strikes, the howls of agony aren’t his own. 

He’s dropped, suddenly. He hits the ground, air rushes back into his airways like a flood, and he gasps and coughs in the dusty air. Before he can gather his bearings, he’s picked up again, but not by the scaley hand of the dragon-type. The hand is small and soft. 

“Mott!” Lenny exclaims, hauling him up as Montgomery hacks out his lungs. Hastily, he’s dragged away from the fight and sat in a crooked stool. Lenny dusts him off. “Shucks, are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” he lies, his voice raspy. Breathing properly allows him to think properly again. Getting rid of Lenny. Fighting thugs. Right. He tries to stand back up, but Lenny ushers him down. “I need to get back in there.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t. Hilda will take care of it.” 

“Hilda?” 

“My new friend, Hilda!” Lenny gestures excitedly to the gigalith, who’s currently stomping the gurdurr and the druddigon into the dirt. “She’s not very good at tic-tac-toe, but she’s awfully good at fighting! And baking!” 

Montgomery stares at Lenny. Then at the gigalith. Then at Lenny again. 

“... _Hilda_? You made friends with some crummy bar thug?” 

“Come on, now, she’s no thug. She just had a long, hard day at the mines and needed to relax. She hasn’t seen her wife in three months because of some big fight they had, so she’s pretty down on her luck, and—” 

Montgomery drowns him out as the true gravity of his situation settles on him. Scaring Lenny away with a bar fight—that was supposed to be his grand plan. That was his ticket to freedom and finding Zekrom, _alone_ , as it should be. And instead of getting scared off by dangerous thugs, Lenny made friends with them. 

How is Montgomery supposed to beat something like that? 

Just as his mind is racing and caving in on itself, the gigalith smashes her opponents into the ground for the last time. She lumbers away from them, leaving a puddle of blood and spit and tears behind. She marches to the bar counter, her every step quaking through the building. Anxiously, the bartender shirks back into the wall. 

The gigalith glowers down at her. “My small, helpless little bug friend and his pathetic companion will rest here for the night.” 

The mandibuzz’s neck shrinks into her body, eyes wide and terrified. 

The gigalith stares. “Do we understand each other.” 

Frantically, the bartender nods. Several, several times. 

The rock-type turns toward Montgomery and Lenny, a pleased expression on her face. “I got a room for Little Lenny.” Lenny beams at her, and her face glows. Somehow, her expression of joy is even more intimidating. Montgomery can’t suppress the shudders that course through him. 

She adds, “We will share the room. I will protect Little Lenny. And his weakling companion.” 

“Hey!” Montgomery protests, his voice cracking. She barely offers him a dismissive glance before nodding for Lenny to follow. Eagerly, Lenny bounds after her, but Montgomery is much less inclined. This lady is downright _terrifying_. And he’s expected to sleep in the same room as her? Hell no, she’ll kill him in his sleep! 

Strangely enough, this new plight of his gets his gears turning. The storm wasn’t enough to frighten Lenny, and neither was the bar fight. Everytime, he’s found some way to twist the negatives into an aggravatingly cheerful positive. But what if there was no way to twist it? What if the object of his fear was constant and unchangeable? The only way Montgomery could ensure that was if he himself was the object of Lenny’s fear. 

Just as Hilda terrifies him, he can terrify Lenny. If he can convince Lenny that he’s a dangerous person, there’s no way Lenny will be comfortable enough to hang around. Maybe he’ll even take off with Hilda and Montgomery will be free of both of them. 

Newfound determination courses through him as he makes his way up the stairs to their room for the night. Tonight, he’s gonna convince Lenny that he’s a murderer. 

Obviously, Montgomery isn’t actually a murderer. Killing someone would’ve been an incredibly difficult thing for even his father to cover up, and Montgomery has never been able to stomach the thought, anyways. But if he can play the part, it won’t matter. Lenny is gullible; he’ll believe it and take off for the hills by sunrise. 

“Yes,” Montgomery mutters to himself, tapping his fingers together and leering into the fireplace, “it’s all coming together.” 

Lenny pauses his stitching to blink oddly at him. “What was that?” 

“Huh? Oh, nothing, nothing,” he laughs. Turning back to the flames, he mumbles just loud enough for Lenny to hear. “Soon, they’ll all be dead. Just like she is…” 

Lenny looks vaguely uncomfortable. 

Honestly, Montgomery is kinda having fun. Plays were one of the only proper aristocratic activities he enjoyed growing up. He used to force Torquil and Florian to partake in ragtag backyard productions of his own all the time growing up, so he’s got some experience in creating characters. The one he’s playing now, he’s dubbed as Murderin’ Montgomery. 

Murderin’ Montgomery is a deranged killer who lost his marbles after watching the woman he loved die at the hands of some bandits. Now, he travels the world, gruesomely flaying every criminal he sees in an attempt to find the solace he desperately craves. Yet, with every life he takes, he only grows more restless and begins killing indiscriminately. Thus, he tragically perpetuates the cycle of death that spurred him into murdering in the first place. 

Mongomery hasn’t worked out all the kinks with Murderin’ Montgomery, yet, but he’s pretty proud of his impromptu creation. It’s gripping! Tragic! Besides, it doesn’t need to be a perfectly developed character to work for him. As long as it makes Lenny uncomfortable enough to run away, then it’ll do the job. And right now, Lenny is subtly shifting away from Montgomery and closer to Hilda, so Montgomery would say it’s working great. Even Hilda watches him warily. 

“So, Hilda,” Lenny says, clearly trying to break the tension. “You work in them mines? How long you been doing that?” 

Reluctantly—very, very reluctantly—Hilda drags her eyes away from Montgomery, who’s still whispering to himself in the ominous glow of the fire. “Not long. Been job hopping. Used to work in a bakery, got fired for stealing the bread.” 

Lenny nods, resuming his work. “I know a lot of people back home who got fired from their jobs for stealing, but it was all they could do to keep their family fed. Was it the same for you?” 

“No.” Her eyes are cold, distant. As if she’s watching her past flicker by outside the window. “Was a poor, hungry, homeless kid. Worked hard, learned to bake. Moved up in life. Met my wife, started a family. But that hungry kid inside me never left. Even though I was under a roof and fed, I was afraid. I was afraid of losing it all again.” 

Lenny leans against her. “So you kept stealing.” 

A grim nod. “I couldn’t stop. My fear was too strong. I was so afraid of losing the life I made for myself that… that I threw it away for a couple loaves of bread.” 

What the hell? Who gave her the right to be so tragic? She’s distracting from Murderin’ Montgomery’s very important character! 

Even worse, she starts to cry. No loud wails or sniffling, just silent tears tracking down her jagged cheeks. Lenny sighs with utmost sympathy, patting her side consolingly. 

“There, there,” Lenny shushes, adding the finishing stitches to… whatever he just made. It looks like a long, narrow stretch of pink fabric. Gesturing to Hilda’s head, he requests, “Lean down for me?” 

She blinks in confusion, but bows her head to his level. Fluidly, he wraps the pink fabric around one of the jutting edges of rock on her head, tying a dainty ribbon on her head. 

“There,” Lenny says, proud. “A fancy little bow to cheer you up. I’ll teach you how to make them if you want; we can make a matching one for your wife. Does she like pink?” 

Hilda stares at Lenny so long that Montgomery worries she’s gonna squish him. “...Yes.” 

“That way when you go back home to her, you’ll have yourself a new skill that you can use to make a living. And you can give her the bow you make and promise you’re gonna do better. But you have to promise, and you have to mean it! Okay?” 

Determined, Hilda nods. She takes the weaving supplies when they’re offered. Lenny sits close beside her, gently instructing her on how to start and guiding her clumsy maneuvers. From the corner of the room, Montgomery stares, suddenly feeling as though he’s being ignored. 

What the hell! 

No, this won’t do. Not one bit. He’s supposed to be scaring Lenny away; how is he gonna do that if Lenny is too busy playing teacher? He needs to get the focus back on him. Or, on Murderin’ Montgomery. 

“Sewing, hmm?” He muses, as if he’s in a whole other world. Lenny turns to him while Hilda refuses to spare him even a glance, too focused on her work. “She used to sew, before they killed her. Sewing always makes me think of what they did to her… and what I did to them.” 

Lenny looks like he’s wondering if Montgomery got hit on the head really, really hard. Hilda, brow furrowed over her work, looks like she’s considering hitting him on the head really, really hard. 

After a while, Lenny pipes up. “...Actually, it’s weaving, since we’re creating the fabric right now. No sewing, yet!” 

Montgomery glares at him. Hard. It still takes thirty seconds longer than he’d like for Lenny to start looking uncomfortable. 

What the _hell_!

Why is Lenny so impossible to scare? Is he stubborn? Dumb? All of the above? Montgomery has been dropping hints all night that he’s gruesomely murdered people, and he knows they’re landing. Even Hilda has her guard up around him constantly. So why can’t he scare away one simple country bumpkin like Lenny? 

He’s tired. He’s frustrated. He needs to get out of this room before he flips a table over. 

Grumbling under his breath, he shoves himself off the floor and states, “I’m getting a drink.” Before Lenny can offer to go with him or talk to him about the power of a joyful attitude or something stupid like that, Montgomery stalks out of the room. 

When he gets down to the bar, the lights are all off and no one is there. He’s only confused for a few moments before he catches a glimpse of the moon outside. It’s a few hours past midnight. Of course no one is down here to get him a drink. 

This time, he actually flips a table. 

By the time he trudges back up the stairs (which takes about an hour, considering he went outside to hit trees and shout angry curses at the sky) he’s more tired and frustrated than he was before. His plans to get rid of Lenny have failed him left and right. It’s infuriating. Failure seems to be a common theme with him, lately. 

Ever since he was banished from the Alcott family, bad luck has followed him like the plague. From muggings to electrocution to fistfights, he’s faced crippling failure at every corner. Every step forward is swiftly followed by three steps back. He’s constantly on square one, but the squares keep changing and he can never get his footing right. Why did this bad fortune have to start now, when he needs success now more than ever? He’s never failed so much in his life… has he? 

He failed to beat Florian all those weeks ago. He failed to promote his family name. He failed to prove himself to Father, again. His lack of a family pendant grows more glaringly obvious with every passing year. He’s enough of a failure to bring Father’s hatred down on himself. If he wasn’t such a failure, would he have gotten kicked out? Saddled with an impossible task that even the greatest of heroes wouldn’t dare to dream of? Maybe—maybe he’s always been a failure.

Needless to say, his mood is pretty sour when he returns to the room. It doesn’t help that the firelight still flickers under the crack in the door, meaning someone is awake. He prays to any deity listening that it’s not Lenny. The last thing he needs to deal with on top of his bitter failure is a stark reminder of it. When he opens the door, he’s not one bit surprised to see that it is Lenny awake. That’s just his kind of luck, lately. 

Hilda is asleep. The pink bow Lenny made her is still tied to her head. Her own misshapen work is complete, folded carefully in her hands, clutched like it might disappear in the night. Lenny sits closer to the fire, holding red fabric in his lap. His eyes droop, weary and exhausted. But when he sees Montgomery, he perks up in the slightest. 

“There you are, Mott.” 

Montgomery drags his feet over to a straw bed, flopping down on it. “I’m not in the mood to talk.” 

“Okay, we don’t gotta talk. But here, I made you something.” 

Montgomery surprises himself with how quickly his head lifts off the pillow. He sits up as Lenny shuffles over to him, holding out the red fabric. As he gets closer, Montgomey realizes there are actually two matching pieces of red fabric. Lenny hands one to him. Sorting it out in his hands reveals a bandana. 

“You can wear it around your neck.” Lenny ties his own around himself to demonstrate. “See? Tah-dah!” 

Montgomery stares at the fabric in his hands, uncomprehending. He looks up at Lenny, who’s grinning eagerly at him. “What—what is this for?” 

“They’re adventurer bandanas, for the both of us! Since we’re pals now!” 

Montgomery absolutely _loathes_ the way that makes him feel. 

All day, he’s been trying to chase Lenny off. All night, he’s been throwing a fit and bemoaning his lack of success, trying to figure out why Lenny keeps sticking to him. And the answer, all this time… was because Lenny sees him as a friend? 

That’s… he doesn’t… 

He doesn’t understand. 

“I don’t deserve this,” he says, swallowing whatever is climbing up his throat. How could he deserve it? He fails in everything he does, he deserves nothing. “I haven’t earned it.” 

Lenny laughs, carefree. “It’s a gift. You don’t gotta earn it.” 

Lenny urges his hands to his neck, helping him tie the bandana. It settles softly around him. It’s still warm from being near the fire. 

“There!” Lenny proclaims, nodding with satisfaction. “It suits you, Mott.” 

Montgomery looks down at it, hesitantly, like it might disappear. It’s still around his neck, and Lenny’s not making a move to snatch it back. Carefully, Montgomery reaches a hand up and clings to it. Wordlessly, he nods in agreement. 

“Well, we oughta get to bed. Hilda’s all tuckered out,” Lenny remarks, as if Montgomery couldn’t hear her snoring like an earthquake. Settling into his own straw bed beside Montgomery’s, he whispers, “‘Night, Mott.” 

“I’ve never actually killed anyone,” he blurts, like an idiot. “I just wanted to scare you.” 

Lenny blinks at him, surprised. Then, his features soften. 

“I know,” he says, gently. “It’s okay; I knew you couldn’t be a killer. You’re too nice.” 

Montgomery swallows, and wants to say, _No, no I’m not._ But the words are trapped in his throat. 

“Besides,” Lenny adds, closing his eyes, “I know what a real killer looks like, and it ain’t you. It’s me.” 

Montgomery’s heart nearly leaps out his throat. 

Lenny rolls over. “Welp, goodnight!” 

By the time morning comes, Hilda wakes to find Montgomery huddled in the corner, dark circles under his eyes, while Lenny sits in bed and laughs at him for falling for his prank. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mott: I'm gonna convince Lenny I'm a murderer
> 
> Lenny: *reverse uno* 
> 
> Mott: oh shit
> 
> Looks like Lenny is in for the long haul! How do you think it will go? Will Mott finally work with someone else? Will Hilda stick around? Check out Thunderlight next Wednesday to find out! 
> 
> As always, comments are greatly appreciated, but never expected. Thank you for reading!


	6. Stolen

“So Hilda’s an only child, I’m the youngest in my family, and Mott’s the middle child in his?” 

Hilda nods and Montomgery says, “Yup.” 

Lenny looks contemplative. “I reckon that makes sense. Everyone knows only children tend to be a little more serious and stubborn, middle children act all innocent but are awfully shady, and the youngest children are sweet angels.” 

Hilda snorts and Mongtomery shoves Lenny, who giggles. “Shut up.” 

“You know I’m right!” 

“What I know is that you’re being a little shit,” Montgomery retorts, and Lenny grins. “You’re surprisingly devious, you know that?” 

Lenny bats his eyelashes in feigned innocence. “Who, me?” 

“Not you,” Hilda denies, her voice a low rumble. “You are an angel. Mott is a bastard.” 

Montgomery folds his arms across his chest defensively. “Who even invited her along?” 

“I invite myself,” she proclaims, as if daring him to challenge her. “I want to watch over Little Lenny. You are too weak to protect him or to stop me.” 

Montgomery scoffs, but doesn’t argue the subject further. He’s actually having a pretty good day, and he doesn’t want to ruin that by being flattened into a meat pancake by an angry rock. Their journey from the dingy bar and to the next town has been wonderfully uneventful. No storms, no bandits, and no bar fights—just sunshine and gentle breezes. It’s a nice change of pace from the usual misery of his journey. 

He even let Lenny derail them, once, to go look at some flowers. It ended up being really fruitful, and not because Lenny made a flower crown for Hilda—but because a nearby traveller had information about Zekrom. The beast has been sighted around the outskirts of Sapphire City, an illustrious metropolis bustling with the rich and famous. Finally, with a solid lead to grasp onto, they’ve set off toward Sapphire City. 

It’s a long journey. Sapphire City is a few days walk from the bar they slept in, so they’ll be needing a place to sleep tonight. Both Lenny and Hilda seem perfectly content with sleeping outside, even though they don’t have a tent, but the thought makes Montgomery cringe. Sleeping on the cold, hard ground in the open wilderness? Sounds like a great way to get pneumonia and die. 

He convinced them they needed to find an inn for the night—easier said than done. Lenny can be a stubborn thing when he wants to be and Hilda is a contrarian shit, at least when it comes to him. But this is his quest, dammit, and he makes the rules. So, they picked up a map before they left the bar and studied it to find a place to rest. There’s a town almost exactly between where they started and where they want to be: Moressley Town, a small settlement tucked away by a river in a large ravine. There, they’ll be able to find some shelter for the night, get some supplies, and then set off again. 

Well, that was the idea, at least. But the prospect of fulfilling his idea doesn’t bode well when they reach the town and he doesn’t even realize it. If this shanty collection of run-down huts is a town, then Montgomery is the head of the Alcott estate. What _happened_ to this place? Mongtomery has been here once before, when Torquil’s father took Torquil, Florian, and him on a summer retreat. He distinctly remembers the town being quaint but lively with the season tourism. What he’s looking at now is a rusty, scrappy, miserable imitation of his memories. 

He looks to Hilda and Lenny to share an expression of shock with them, but they don’t look the slightest bit surprised. They don’t even glance at him. They just gaze over the shambles with morose yet resigned expressions, as if they’ve seen this too many times before. But who’s ever seen something like this? 

A blitzle nearby turns to look at them. She’s so skinny and bony that when she starts walking toward them, Montgomery worries that she’s gonna try and eat them. Instead, she regards them with a kind, if not tired, smile and nods. 

“Travellers, hm? We haven’t had many in recent months,” she remarks, her tone light. But Montgomery has spent his entire life reading the fake masks people present to him, and hers is the fakest he’s ever seen. Her nonchalance barely hides the burden she seems to carry. “I’m afraid we won’t have much for you here in Moressley Town, but we’d be happy to house you for as long as you need.” 

“That would be wonderful. Anything you can provide, we’d sure be grateful for,” Lenny replies, sharing her smile. His veils a tinge of sympathy, sympathy someone might feel when they’re watching someone go through the same Hell they have. 

Before Montgomery can process how strange emotions that aren’t ‘unfiltered joy’ look on Lenny, Lenny introduces himself. The blitzle jumps like she’s been jolted out of a dream. “Oh, my apologies, I didn’t even introduce myself. I’m Bela, the mayor of this town.” 

It takes Montgomery’s brain a moment to connect her words to reality. 

“You’re the _mayor_?” He splutters, in the meantime. 

Her eyes take on a certain sadness, as if she’s experienced this reaction far too much to not expect it. “Yes, I know it’s quite surprising. I’m a little young to be mayor, but after my mother died of starvation… well, I took over.” 

Montgomery is still reeling while Hilda and Lenny accept her explanation with solemn nods of understanding. How is a skinny, starving, dirty person a mayor? Mayors, even of the smallest towns, usually enjoy some form of luxury. Mongtomery could blame it on her lack of self-care, but it sounds like the previous mayor died of starvation, of all things. What mayor dies of starvation? 

Looking around at the town, he supposes if there’s any place a mayor would die of neglect, it would be here. The townsfolk don’t look any better. Everyone is pale and filthy and hollow. The only food he sees is moldy and the only sounds he hears are soft, weak wails. Even the river runs more dirt than water. Montgomery remembers playing in that river; it was crystal clear. Even though he was young, it wasn’t that long ago. Quickly, he does the math in his head. If he was about twelve on that vacation, and he’s twenty now, then whatever happened to this place happened within eight years. Eight years might be a significant chunk of time, but it’s not enough to completely devastate what was once a booming tourist attraction. 

The only logical reasoning behind the downfall must be poor leadership. Right? Perhaps her mother was a poor excuse for a mayor and drove the town to the brink of collapse. If she was somehow able to starve herself, even as a mayor, she’d probably be capable of ruining a great town. 

“What happened here?” Hilda rumbles, something like desolation casting itself over her jagged face. “Was it Zekrom?” 

Mayor Bela shakes her head. “No, thankfully. I employed some mercenaries to protect the town in case Zekrom ever decides to show up here. They’re very… expensive.” 

“Have they been any help?” Lenny wonders. 

“Well, Zekrom hasn’t attacked us so far,” she answers, a weary yet hopeful smile tugging on her face. “I have to imagine they’re doing something.” 

So, the town is being bled dry by expensive mercenaries. He can only wonder if the protection they provide is worth all this. Obviously, dying by Zekrom’s hands would be very _not good_ —but isn’t this just piling on unnecessary suffering? Who’s to say if Zekrom would even attack this place; no one can figure out that beast’s schedule! It’s just a zap zap here and a zap zap there, no rhyme or reason to it! 

As if Bela can read his mind, she says, “I know things look bleak. And… they are. They are, but if it means I can protect my people and my home, I’m willing to give anything.” 

Anything and everything. This town is the definition of barren and desolate. Montgomery pulls out his map and glances over it. If there’s nothing here, now are they supposed to stock up on supplies for the trip to Sapphire City? They need to find a nearby town that hasn’t gone to hell if they’re going to get the things they need, and they should try to do it before sundown. Peering up at the sky tells him there’s a fat chance of that. 

Before he can tell Lenny and Hilda that it’s time to take their business elsewhere, the wailing inside the town grows louder. It’s quickly followed by a snarling order to shut up. He looks up to see a beggar and a few mercenaries, the beggar obediently silencing themselves as the head mercenary demands payment. 

“Ya want our boss to keep protectin’ ya? Huh? Huh?!” The krokorok spits, stomping a foot viciously. “Then fork over what ya got, and don’t try and hide anythin’!” 

Mechanically and with dead eyes, the beggar hands over three measly, dirty coins. The krokorok sneers at the sparse offerings, but stuffs them in a satchel nonetheless. The beggar watches the coins disappear like they’ve lost their life’s work. 

Spitefully, the krokorok kicks up dirt in the beggar’s face. Shouting to the rest of the square, he snaps, “The rest of you, fork it over! Now!” 

Bela rambles a quick apology for her rudeness before hurrying over to the beggar to help them wipe the dust from their face. Meanwhile, the mercenaries stomp around the square, gnashing their teeth and thrusting their open satchels into everyone’s faces, unrelenting until every last person is bled dry. 

More proof that they should not be staying in this town, by any means. Montgomery has barely scraped together what little money he could find in order to buy them supplies; he’s not about to lose it all in some shanty town to some filthy crook. Frowning with thought, he redirects his attention to the map. 

Over the sobbing of an old woman, he says, “We ought to head east, there’s a little village about an hour or so away…” 

“This is awful,” Lenny utters, as if he can’t hear him. When Montgomery glances at him, Lenny seems to be staring a thousand yards away as he watches the old woman plead with the mercenaries for one scrap of food. “This has really gotten out of hand.” 

Montgomery looks back at the map. “Yeah, and that’s why we’re getting out of here. So do you think we should head east to the village, or south? I think there’s a fortress down south…” 

Hilda watches the scene Lenny does and rumbles, “This. This is sick.” 

He furrows his eyebrows. “Hey, are you guys listening to me? East or south?” 

“We gotta do something,” Lenny states, grabbing Hilda’s arm. Arm? Leg? “We can’t just leave!” 

“Uh, yes we can,” Montgomery retorts. Hilda and Lenny turn to gape at him. Well, Lenny gapes. Hilda glares, but that’s pretty normal for her whenever she looks at him, so he’s not too bothered. “Didn’t you hear me? There’s another village that’s only an hour away. It might be dark by the time we get there, but not too late to find a place to stay.” 

Lenny stops gaping, and instead looks at him with a different kind of astonishment. “Mott, it ain’t about _ability_ to leave.” 

Montgomery is about to ask just what the hell it’s about then when the krokorok saunters toward them. 

“You three. Loot. Now,” he commands, holding up his satchel. It’s so full that the seams are starting to burst. “Or you’ll answer to the boss.” 

Without looking up from his map, Montgomery drones, “We don’t live here, we don’t owe you anything, go find some other sad sap to harass.” 

“Don’t live here, eh? But you’re still passin’ through, so you’re benefiting from our boss’s protection,” the krokorok reminds, his hold on the satchel not faltering. “But I’m a generous guy, and since you don’t benefit like the rest do, you don’t gotta fork over everything. Just those bandanas would be a-okay.” 

Montomery’s gaze snaps up from the map, and he grips the bandana around his neck. “ _No_.” 

The krokorok growls, snatching the map out of his hands and throwing it to the dirt. “Now you’re just bein’ stubborn. You wanna die?!” 

From behind him, a shadow is cast over himself and the krokorok. When he glances back, Hilda is looming over them with murder in her eyes. 

The krokorok gulps. “I, I mean—I’m takin’ you to see the boss!” 

Montgomery’s arm is snatched before he can protest, and another mercenary shoves Lenny forward. Not a single one of them dares to touch Hilda, especially after she glowers at one of them until they look ready to pee themselves. Still, she walks forward on her own, following them close behind. 

“Uh, hey, Hilda?” Montgomery snaps over his shoulder as he’s dragged away. “Why don’t you, I don’t know, stop them?!” 

Her eyes are stony as she marches forward. “Want to meet this sick boss. Want to pound their face in.” 

Montgomery scarcely has a moment to insist they don’t have time for this before he’s hauled off. 

As they’re being pushed and shoved through the town, Montgomery’s skin only crawls more. This place is _disgusting_. Fecal matter and other waste trickle through the streets, wafting a noxious stench that makes his gag reflexes work overtime. The humidity only adds to the revolting smell, somehow making the scent feel sticky. Montgomery shudders at the very thought. 

The people aren’t much better than the place. Their homes may be rusting and crumbling, but they’re more dirt than flesh and they look on the verge of collapse. Every pair of eyes are vacant and dry and longing, like a desert that once new great rains. In towns like these, the square is usually bustling with noise and activity. The only noise here is the occasional sniffle and cough, and the only activity seems to be sitting around and waiting to die. 

He turns to exchange a look of disgust with Lenny, only, Lenny doesn’t seem inclined to share it. Instead, his eyes pool with some great, unnamable sadness. 

“This is awful,” Lenny whispers to himself as he watches a mercenary rip moldy bread from the mouth of a child. “Just awful.” 

“Why,” Hilda demands, making the mercenaries jump. “Why do you take so much.” 

The krokorok musters all his courage just to glance back at her and respond. “Ain’t it obvious? Our boss is the strongest there is; no one can beat him! If somebody wants protection from a guy like that, they gotta be ready to pay big bucks to keep him. What would stop him from offering his protection to a higher paying town?” 

“Basic empathy?” Lenny suggests. He’s shoved for his efforts. 

“Empathy ain’t shit,” the krokorok sneers. “Economics is where it’s at.” 

Montgomery may hate the guy, but he’s got a point. If their boss is as strong as they say, and the town wants his protection, of course he’s gonna demand a high price. But if they keep bleeding the town dry, how are they gonna get paid? Eventually, the town will run out of things to give. 

That’s when it strikes him: that’s the point. Protect a town, bleed it dry, and then move onto the next high-paying town. That way, they’ll make bank on every town and then have an excuse to leave it for a higher bidder. 

Economics. 

They pass an old man cradling a sick child as Bela sits nearby and comforts them. When she sees the three of them being bullied down the street, her eyes widen like saucers. Hastily, she jumps to her feet and gallops over. 

“What’s going on?” She asks, her eyes darting between the mercenaries and them. “Is everything okay?” 

“No!” Montgomery and the krokorok yell at the same time. They narrow their eyes at each other. But the krokorok eventually continues, “These three refused to pay up, so we’re takin’ them to the boss.” 

“They don’t live here, there’s no reason they should have to pay…” 

“If they benefit from us, we need compensation for our troubles.” 

Bela gives the krokorok one last imploring look before deciding he can’t be swayed. Then, she turns her attention to the three of them and offers an apologetic wince. 

“I’ll come with you,” she promises, as if that solves anything, “And I’ll try to smooth things over with their boss.” 

It doesn’t take too long for them to end up at the mercenaries ‘base’ of sorts. He can tell it’s where they camp out because it’s the only halfway decent building in the whole town. Also, because a group of mercenaries are slinking around the door, jeering at a woman who seems to be beseeching them for something. 

“Please, just one week,” she pleads, her voice ragged and weary. “One week without having to pay our dues, and we can save up enough money to buy my son medicine. Please, he’ll die without it!” 

One of the mercenaries sneers. “How’s it our fault that you’re such an irresponsible parent? If you’d saved up more, you wouldn’t be in this position!” 

She opens her mouth to say something else, but Montgomery doesn’t hear it. They’re shoved through the doors before he can listen to the rest of the conversation play out. But through the thick doors, he is able to hear the muffled sounds of mocking laughter coming from the mercenaries. 

Even if the outside of the building suggested some level of luxury (relative to the rest of the town, at least), the inside is kinda a mess. Nothing like the absolute garbage dump outside, but things are tossed around haphazardly and unfinished food litters the ground. It looks more like a sloppy teenager’s hideout than a mercenary base. 

Montgomery has to squint to study his surroundings better. It’s a large room, spacious and tall, and was probably once a community center of sorts. The room is dim, with only half the candles lit, and those half are melted down to the stubs. Wax drips from the sconces into puddles on the floor, hardening and sticking to the floorboards. The windows are boarded up, the floor is unswept, and dust lingers in the air. Again, although it doesn’t compare to the horrors outside, it’s not exactly pleasant. 

But when his eyes wander to the center of the room, he discovers the one good thing in this building: a pile of wealth. 

Literally, it’s just a pile, sitting in the middle of the room, like in all those cheesy plays where there’s a really rich character and the playwright doesn’t know how else to show how stinking rich they are. The wealth isn’t all glittering gold and shining jewels, and it doesn’t resemble a fraction of the wealth back at the Alcott estate. It’s mostly goods and food, some copper coins strewn about, and a couple of more noticable assets like family heirlooms. Still, when sizing this pile up to the rest of the town, this collection is like a hoard of treasures. Mayor Bela looks equal parts longing and sick when she lays eyes on it. 

At the top of the pile, sitting in a plush chair that rests crookedly in the mass of wealth, a krookodile sprawls himself out comfortably. He taps his claws languidly against the arm of the chair, in a slow, steady rhythm as they’re brought forward. His half-lidded gaze regards them carelessly.

“Who are these scumbags you’ve brought to me?” He wonders, tilting his chin up so he looks down at them over his nose. “They don’t look like they’re worth my time.” 

The krokorok pipes up. “Boss, these folks was tryin’ to skimp out on payment!” 

“Because they don’t live here,” Bela hastily adds. 

“And also screw you,” Montgomery snaps. 

The krookodile’s gaze sharpens, but only for an instant. Then, he yawns, clearly too lazy to bother with them. 

Waving a fat finger at them idly, he says, “Just take their bandanas and tell them to get the hell out of my town.” 

The mercenaries advance, their grubby hands closing in around his bandana. Before a single grimy finger lays on it, Montgomery shoots a jet out water out at them and knocks them back. The struck mercenaries stagger back and sputter to catch their breath, and the others race in and grab him before he can brandish his scalshops. 

“Screw you!” He shouts, trying to bodily jerk himself out of their grasp. His movements only serve to lock him further in place. “Go ahead, try it! See if I don’t drown your asses and—” 

His rant is cut short when the krokorok stuffs a cloth in his mouth to slow down any attack he might try. That doesn’t mean he’s not gonna fight back, and as they reach out to him again, he summons all the water he can. 

Not fast enough. They snatch the bandana from around his neck and scurry back just as he launches a barrage at them. 

The krookodile finally seems to wake up as water creeps toward his mountain of stuff. Gesturing wildly toward the door, he bellows, “Get them outta here!” 

After a flurry of arms and legs and hands and floor and door, Montomery is thrust outside and thrown to the street. The city stench rears its ugly head once more, so sudden and violent that he nearly retches. He whips around to spit curses at the mercenaries or to just spit in general, but then Lenny is thrown after him and he’s opening his arms to catch him before he realizes it. 

They hit the ground together, hard. His ears ring from the impact and are filled with the far away laughter of the mercenaries. Bela races out after them, eyes full of worry, mouth racing a mile a minute. Montgomery can’t hear a word she’s saying. But by the time Hilda trudges out to inspect him, the spots in his vision clear and his hearing comes back. 

“Mott? Mott, are you okay?” Lenny asks, voice fraught with concern. His bandana is gone, too. Digging into his pouch, he pulls out a berry. “Here, here, eat this, it’ll make you feel better.” 

Montgomery accepts the berry and chews on it vengefully. Unconsciously, his hand drifts up to his neck. His bare neck. 

He’s lost his family name. His status. His dignity. Everything valuable about him, everything that makes him _him_ , has been whisked away. Stolen. And now, they’ve taken the last thing he could claim as his own. 

He may be a water type, but right now, he burns. 

Beside him, Lenny is comforting someone—the woman who had begged the mercenaries for medicine, a maractus woman. She weeps into his shoulder and utters fragmented phrases like “my boy” and “just a little medicine” and “please, please, _please_.” 

They took his bandana. 

He _burns_. 

“I’m ending this,” he seethes, standing. His fists clench and unclench; his jaw locks so tight it might shatter. “I’m getting our stuff back and I’m ending this.” 

Bela swallows, anxious. “How?” 

“By taking down their boss,” he states. 

The others look at him like he’s a madman. But the thing is, he’s perfectly sane. 

Now that he’s gotten a glimpse of the boss, he knows what he’s dealing with. The guy is nothing more than a fat, lazy piece of work. His only real power comes from ordering his subordinates around as well as the town’s perception of him as some indestructible warrior. If Montgomery destroys his link to one of those things, the boss topples down from his pedestal. 

Beating him in a public fight will ruin his fabricated image of unparalleled strength. Basic power play tactics. Montgomery has seen his father do the same to lesser nobles countless times, and it always ends with them slinking away and his father claiming a great victory. If he does the same, here and now, he’ll defeat the boss and get his bandana back.

A dreadfully familiar, sneering voice behind him taunts, “Is that what you think you’re gonna do?” 

Montgomery’s blood goes cold. Before he can whirl around and brace himself, he’s clocked in the back of the head. 

Lenny leaps to his aid, holding him close. Montgomery turns and scowls at the krokorok, who’s busy twisting his wrist like he’s gearing up for another punch. The krokorok’s grin is malicious. 

“Looks like I’ll have to keep you folks outta the way, then.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mott: i don't wanna be here anymore, can we just leave
> 
> Mercenary: *steals his bandana* 
> 
> Mott: actually you know what i changed my mind fuck you
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! Please feel free to comment, I always love to hear from you guys. Be sure to return every Wednesday for the updates! See you soon!


	7. Selfish

“Hey, hey, sing for us, little birdy! Tweet tweet!” 

The jeering laughter from down below is nothing new. The mercenaries have been at this for about two hours now, and any anger Montgomery could possibly feel has already been felt. All he can do is sit in his suspended cage, chin dropped against his hand, and glare at the bars separating him and freedom. 

Maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t have announced his intentions to overthrow their boss in front of their base. 

After the krokorok came and punched his lights out, there was a scuffle between them and the mercenaries. Bela tried to mediate the issue, but it was to no avail. The mercenaries couldn’t be reasoned with, and Montgomery was beyond pissed. It seems Hilda was, too, because it took ten mercenaries to finally take her down. 

But in the end, they were beaten. They were outrageously outnumbered and no one came to their aid. Even when it was clear that Bela would be getting locked up with them, she didn’t fight. All she did was fret about how she’d be able to help her people if she was all locked up. 

They locked up the maractus mother, too, in the same cage as Lenny and Bela. Lenny’s natural friend-making instincts kicked in and he’s gotten to know everything about her now that they’re “cage buddies”—Lenny’s words, not his. Her name is Agnes, she’s a mother of four, and she likes to grow vegetables. Montgomery could be irritated at Lenny for pestering this poor woman about vegetables of all things, but listening to their conversation helps him drown out the mercenaries. 

“Chirp! Chirp! Come on, don’t be such a quiet little birdy!” One of them taunts. He’d roll his eyes if he wasn’t already sick of doing that. “If you’re in a bird cage, you might as well sing!” 

“Maybe he can’t sing. Maybe he’s sensitive about it,” the other sneers. In a mocking, derogatory voice, they say, “Poor little baby.” 

Montgomery frowns. He’s actually quite good at singing, thank you very much! 

Not like he’d sing for these chumps, though. He’s sick of giving these guys the time of day, much less wasting energy on them. 

They must notice that he’s ignoring them, and that seems to irritate them. He could almost smile vindictively if he didn’t feel so dead inside. If they’re so upset that he won’t entertain them, they can go find something else to do. Don’t they have, like… mercenary things to do? Or something? 

The two mercenaries mutter amongst themselves for a few moments. Their tone goes from disgruntled to excited in a frighteningly short time. Warily, Montgomery dares a glance down at them. One of them races off to the center of the room, where the big pile is, and rummages around. Then, with a red cloth in hand, they jog eagerly back. 

_His_ red cloth. 

Holding his bandana, they wave it cruelly in front of him, just an inch out of his reach. He doesn’t make a move to try and grab it; he knows that will just end in them yanking it back and him looking like a fool. But it doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel a bitter, burning rage toil through him as they put the bandana on and do poor imitations of him. Most of them involve him crying like a baby. 

They seem to squeeze all the satisfaction they can out of that before taking the bandana off and tossing it away carelessly. Montgomery swears he feels his blood pressure spike when the cloth touches the ground. 

“And what about you, lady?” One of the mercenaries says. “What’s your deal?” 

For a bewildering moment, Montgomery thinks they’re talking to Hilda, whose body and rage are barely restrained by the flimsy cage they’ve stuffed her into. But when he follows their eye line, he sees they’re grinning at the maractus, Agnes. Which makes much more sense. He can’t imagine these idiots are dense enough to try and commit suicide via pissing off Hilda. 

Agnes doesn’t respond to them, instead shirking away from the bars when they lean up against them. Lenny grabs onto her, holding her close and backing into the corner. Bela remains between them and the mercenaries, swallowing down her obvious apprehension. With shadows covering their faces, the mercenaries smirk down at the three of them. 

“You’re the medicine lady, ain’t ya? Tryin’ to get medicine for your dead kid?” 

Their taunts seem to pierce straight through her heart. Shudders course through her with every word, and tears pool into her eyes. 

“Hey, we’re really doin’ you a favor by not givin’ you the money for medicine. Ain’t no use in tryin’ to heal a kid who’s half dead, anyway!” They hoot and holler like they’ve told the best joke they’ve ever heard. Agnes’ lip trembles. “We might as well toss that kid in the river and let him float away before he croaks; save you the hassle!” 

Their ridicule echoes sharply through the room, jarring and unpleasant. It seems to reverberate painfully through Agnes, who crumples into miserable, broken sobs. Thoroughly entertained and looking for more, the mercenaries turn back to Montgomery and stomp on his bandana. 

“How does that feel, pal? Huh? I bet that makes you feel real mad! Why don’t you come down and do something about it?” 

Montgomery stills.

They laugh and slap each other’s backs, throwing out more taunts and curses that Montgomery doesn’t hear. He’s too busy dealing with something inside him to bother listening to them—something uncomfortable. Something old and familiar, like a bad memory he’s tried to ignore. 

He remembers, when he was just a little kid, being upset that his mother wouldn’t buy him a piece of candy. He complained and complained and complained about it to Torquil until Florian showed up with bruises from his dad. And suddenly, the candy seemed like a pretty stupid thing to get upset about. 

Right now, this situation with his bandana and the mother of a dying child… feels a lot like that. 

The uncomfortable feeling in his chest keeps rising. It rises and rises until it forms the coherence to whisper: _am I a bad person?_

He used to ask himself that, when he was younger. A lot. But eventually, he pushed it down, because it felt better. But now, as he watches Lenny comfort a woman whose child is dying, he recognizes what goodness is. And none of that is in him. 

He doesn’t… really know what to do with that. 

He wants to push it down again and forget it, but that would just make him an even worse person. Right? Deliberately ignoring how much of a terrible person he is sounds like a very un-Lenny thing to do. But right now, these haze of thoughts and feelings are distracting him and keeping him from seeing with clarity. 

So, he puts it aside. Not to be forgotten, but to be dealt with later. 

Because right now, it’s time to break out. 

Montgomery stands up and slams his entire body into the side of the cage. It doesn’t break, but it does dent. The chain that his cage is suspended by swings wildly. Staggering to the other side of the cage, he braces himself against the bars before charging and slamming into the side again. The dent grows larger. 

“Hey!” One of the mercenaries snaps, shaking a fist at him. “You, knock it off!”

He ignores them, crashing into the bars a third time. The dent is growing; the cage is swinging in a wide arch. The rusty metal creaks and groans in agony, shrieking like it’s about to snap. Glancing up, he notices that the chain attached to the ceiling is more rust than metal. With a few more swings, it just might snap. With renewed vigor, he tackles the side of the cage again. 

Hilda catches on to his intentions, and she seems to whole-heartedly agree with the sentiment. With an enraged roar, she smashes her legs outward, denting the sides of her cage. It already looks ready to give under her strength. The room vibrates with her power. 

“H-hey now!” The mercenary stammers, backing away anxiously. She retracts her legs to kick at the walls again. “Stop that, or we’ll—” 

They don’t get to finish their sentence, because Montgomery’s cage decides to bust right then. It snaps off it’s chain and falls to the ground, nearly crushing the mercenaries before they narrowly escape. Upon impact, the cage bursts open, and Montgomery comes tumbling out. He shakes himself off, dizzy and disoriented, just as a loud crashing noise fills the chamber. 

To his side, Hilda breaks through her cage. She stands at full height, towering over the cowering mercenaries. Her jagged face is alight with fury. 

The mercenaries tremble in place. “B-b-b-boss!” 

From the top of his pile, the krookodile snores away. 

Hilda glowers down at the mercenaries who shrink and whimper in fear. 

No one tries to stop Hilda as she utterly thrashes her opponents. Montgomery races over to the third cage, the one with Lenny, Agnes, and Bela. Gripping the bars, he tugs and tests the strength. Durable, but not much more than his own was. With a little extra push, he should be able to break through it. 

As if reading his mind, Lenny says, “At the same time, Mott. Ready?” 

He unsheathes his scalchops, pulsing water through them. “Three.” 

Lenny summons his grass-type powers. “Two.” 

They lunge at the bars. “One!” 

Their blows meet the metal at the same time, compromising the integrity of both sides. At first, nothing gives, and he worries that freeing them will take longer than he thought—but then it caves all at once, as fast as a strike of lightning. The bars bend under the strain and smash apart in seconds. Just like that, the third cage is busted. 

Lenny hops out, grinning at him. “We make a pretty good team, Mott.” 

Montgomery finds himself smiling back. 

“Yeah. Yeah, we do.” 

Bela helps Agnes out, who’s still sniffling and swiping her tears away. They both look rather anxious, eyes darting from side to side as if they expect a mercenary to fly out of nowhere. But no pokémon alive is dense enough to swoop in when Hilda is on a rampage. 

“Hey. Hey Hilda, I think you got them,” Montgomery calls over the sound of shattering wood and bone. He winces at a particularly painful looking smash. “Hey, uh. Hilda? Buddy?” 

Lenny hurries over to her before Montgomery can stop him. Just as he worries that Lenny’s life is about to come to a very abrupt conclusion, Lenny places a gentle hand on her leg. She turns. 

“You already won. There ain’t no need to go overboard.” 

Hilda shuffles with—is that embarrassment? Is she capable of that? “I’m sorry, Little Lenny. I don’t like people who hurt the weak.” 

Lenny speaks softly. “Me neither.”

“Was I like them?” She asks, more to herself than anything. “When I stole and I didn’t need to, was I the same as them?” 

“Hilda, you could never be the same as them. Let’s just get outta here, okay?” 

She nods. 

From the pile of wealth, the sound of snoring is sharply cut off. “Snnrk?! H-huh? Wha—hey!” The krookodile, now awake, turns furiously in his chair and points a livid finger at them. “Someone! Someone get them!” 

Agnes shrinks behind Bela, trembling at the surrounding mercenaries. Before anyone can make the first move, Hilda lumbers over to stand in front of the women. 

“Go ahead,” she says, to the mercenaries. Her tone is conversational, but her eyes are confrontational. With a voice like a rumbling thunderstorm, she dares, “Get them.” 

The mercenaries can’t back away quick enough. 

Busting out of the base is easy, after that. They all just cling to Hilda and make taunting faces at the mercenaries. On the way out, Montgomery snatches the red bandanas back and scoops up a handful of coins. 

Trekking through the town back the Agnes’ house is just as unpleasant as it was when they were travelling to the base, but this time, Montgomery is plagued with a lot of inner turmoil, too. He made true on his word when he said he wasn’t going to ignore the ‘am I a bad person’ conversation. But now that he’s able to confront it, he’s not sure if he’s ready. 

He’s never been under the illusion that he’s necessarily a _good_ person. After all, he gets in fights with Florian and he disappoints his father all the time. He says and does things that he feels guilty about pretty often. He’s not like Lenny. He doesn’t pull complete strangers who’ve just been electrocuted within an inch of their life out of rivers. He doesn’t make friends with people at a bar and counsel them through their life’s troubles. He doesn’t see a town full of impoverished, needy people and think, _we can’t just leave._ Instead, he picks up his map and looks at the fastest route out. 

By the time they arrive at Agnes’ house, his body is sagging and he’s dragging his feet. Even if it is ridiculously early in the morning, he has a feeling that exhaustion isn’t the only thing weighing him down. 

Agnes’ family weeps over her return. The feelings they release are so intense that he can feel them, too. Relief. Worry. Joy. Sadness. There’s such a mix of emotions in this moment because even though they fixed something, they didn’t fix everything. Montgomery can’t help but feel guilty as he hands the family the little scraps of money he snagged from the krookodile. Is this really all he can offer? This will help buy the medicine, but what about tomorrow? What about the next illness, the next famine, the next thing? 

He doesn’t know why he turns to Lenny, away from the rest of the crowd. He doesn’t know why he opens his mouth and asks, “Why did you want to stay and help?” 

_Because he’s a good person_ , an insidious voice whispers in the back of his mind, _and you’re not._

Lenny blinks at him quizzically. “Well, why did you give them the money for medicine? Because it was the right thing to do.” 

But that’s different. Lenny does things because he’s good, and Montgomery does things because he’s not. The only reason he picked up that money for them was because… because… well, he doesn’t know. But he only does things for himself, that’s why father banished him—because he couldn’t put the family’s reputation before himself.

Maybe that’s why he’s always wondered if he was a bad person, because he’s always been this way: selfish. 

He was ten when he first realized it. 

Back then, all that really mattered was what happened in his backyard. The whole world was him and Florian and Torquil, playing make-believe in the woods or staging performances for their siblings. His only worry was what game they would play that day and if the neighbor’s mean kids would stop by to torment them again. He lived, content, in a bubble. 

But one day, the neighbor’s kids started throwing rocks at Torquil. They were older, and tougher, and meaner, and they didn’t care that Torquil started to cry. They just kept throwing and jeering. 

“Son of a whore! Brothel baby! There’s no blue blood in you! Your father doesn’t love you, little bastard son!” 

Montomgery didn’t know what the words meant at the time, and he didn’t care. All he knew was that the words hurt Torquil more than the rocks and that Torquil was his friend. At that age, there was a very simple protocol for that.

“Agh! Get off, get off you little rat!” The bullies screamed as he swung and clawed at their faces. The eldest one shoved him off and spit blood at him. “No good Alcott bitch; have fun defending that prostitute’s bastard child!” 

He yelled at them with a vicious war cry and flung sticks and stones and everything he could get his bloodied, angry little hands on. Curses spat forth from his lips, words his father called him when he was upset with him. 

“Useless little shits!” He cried, his voice cracking and roaring with too much rage for such a tiny body. “Pathetic, no-good, sorry wastes of my time!”

Watching the retreating figures of those bullies felt like victory. It tasted like triumph, like vengeance, like justice. Helping Torquil out of the dirt and dusting him off felt good. It made him feel good inside to calm Torquil down and help him dry his tears. But just as the atmosphere settled and Torquil’s crying turned to laughing at Montgomery’s jokes and antics, a shadow consumed them. 

Torquil shrunk back in fear and the temperature plummeted. When Montgomery turned, he was face to face with the grim, stony countenance of his father. 

Father: “Did you attack the Eaton children when they came to visit?” 

Montgomery: “They weren’t visiting, they were bullying Torquil!” 

A flash of anger stole over his father’s features. “Is that how you speak to the Alcott patriarch?” 

Montgomery, realizing his mistake, bowed his head and murmured a submissive ‘no.’ 

“The Eaton family are close allies with the Alcotts. Our friendship with them spans generations,” his father informs, his voice grave and dire, as if reading an obituary. “Someday, you will be expected to take up the family mantle and maintain those connections. Your strained relationship with their children could ruin our standing with them for years to come—do you understand what I am saying?” 

Montgomery nodded. He understood the words being spoken, but he felt that he was missing the underlying subtext surrounding them, or the ‘bigger picture.’ But he knew better than to ask. Asking his father questions was almost always taken as disrespect. 

As if his father could tell that he was lying, he sighed heavily. Wearily. Like he was the most patient man in the world and Montgomery was the only creature who could test that unyielding patience. It made him want to shrink and disappear in shame. 

“That means you need to weigh the pros and cons of your actions. Although the Douglass family and ours are close, they do not have the same influence as the Eatons. We need to put more emphasis on fostering connections to the stronger Eatons rather than the weaker Douglasses.” Montgomery squirmed uncomfortably while Torquil looked at the ground. He wished his father wouldn’t talk about Torquil’s family like that right in front of him. “So, tell me: your decision to support the Douglass heir by challenging the Eatons—was that the correct choice?” 

“It…” No. That’s the answer his father wants to hear, ‘no.’ But that doesn’t sit well with Montgomery. What he did today felt right. Felt good. Doesn’t that mean it was a good thing? “It feels right.” 

His father frowned, displeased. “It only feels right because you’re a selfish boy, Montgomery.” 

He was shocked by the accusation. 

Selfish? 

“You are selfish. Self-centered. Self-serving,” his father condemned, each word striking him like a knife to the heart. “Your choice could have harmed the Alcott’s family standing with the Eatons, costing us an irreplaceable asset. If that choice feels right to you, that is because your feelings are inherently selfish.” 

Montgomery helped Torquil because it felt right. It felt good. But if that was the wrong thing to do, the selfish thing to do… 

Did that mean he was a bad person? 

“Next time, what will you do?” Father demanded. “Will you serve your family? Or yourself?” 

Ducking his head, he mumbled, “My family, sir.” 

His father raised his head. Not pleased, because he was never pleased, but close enough that Montgomery knew he made the right choice. 

“That’s exactly right.” 

He’s always been selfish. Ever since then, he hasn’t known whether he can trust the voices in his heart or not. His conscience is riddled with flaws and egotism; he’s an inaccurate, unreliable judge of his own intentions—even when he thinks he’s doing the right thing, his father presents the facts and shows him how dastardly his intentions really are. Even now, as he stands in front of Agnes’ weeping family and they thank him, over and over, he knows he doesn’t deserve their thanks. Because whenever he feels good about doing something, like getting her the money for medicine, that usually means he did the wrong thing. 

He’s still puzzling over his actions, trying to figure out how giving the family medicine was wrong or somehow self-centered when Agnes and her family go inside to rest. Bela motions for them to follow her to her home where they can stay and sleep. He follows like a zombie, lost in every way but physical.

Eventually, he rationalizes it. Agnes was crying a lot about her child dying, and the sound must’ve been grating on his nerves. He stole the money to get her to be quiet. Even if the end result was still good, it was motivated by selfish means. A small part of him is relieved—now that he knows it was just his motives that were bad and not the result, he doesn’t have as much to feel guilty over. At least his selfishness didn’t hurt anyone this time.

When they get to Bela’s house, there’s only enough room for them to sleep in a big huddle together. There aren’t enough blankets and there’s hardly enough leg room, but physical discomfort isn’t really at the forefront of his mind right now. His focus is captured by the red bandana wrapped around his neck. 

Lenny gave this to him a few days ago, and he still hasn’t decided what he thinks about it. It was a nice gesture, even if the material is a little plain and scratchy. It makes him feel… good. Even without any blankets on this chilly night, just holding the bandana and remembering the night he received it makes his stomach fluttery and warm. 

But he was so focused on getting his bandana back from the mercenaries that he didn’t even notice the pain Agnes was going through. The bandana made him self-centered, again. Of course, trust him to be the only person who can turn a nice gift into something so horrible. 

He turns to Lenny, who’s fast asleep. Everyone else is in a deep slumber. He should try to sleep, too. He really should. 

Instead, he finds himself reaching out and shaking Lenny awake. 

“Hmm?” Lenny wakes, groggy and blinking slowly. “Mott? Is something the matter?” 

Montgomery swallows the lump in his throat. It doesn’t go down. 

Taking off his bandana, he hands it to Lenny. “I told you before, I don’t deserve this. I’m…” Selfish. A failure. “I’m not someone who should be allowed to have this.” 

Lenny narrows his eyes and frowns like he’s been given two puzzle pieces that don’t fit together. 

“This again? Mott, it’s a gift. You don’t gotta earn it.” 

He can’t stop himself from blurting, “I’ll corrupt it.” 

Lenny looks at him like he’s grown two heads. “...What?” 

“I—I already have. I let myself get so focused on losing it that I ignored everyone else’s problems—hell I didn’t even want to stay in this town and help anyone until it got stolen! And then—!” 

Gingerly, Lenny shushes him. “You’re getting worked up, Mott. Sure, maybe you could’ve been a little more thoughtful in the beginning, but you came around and did the right thing in the end, didn’t you?” 

Montgomery stares at him, uncomprehending. 

“Giving Agnes the money she needed for the medicine?” Lenny prompts. 

He deflates. “Oh. That. No, I did that for my own sake.” 

“How’s that?” 

“I wanted her to stop crying.” 

“Is that so? You didn’t seem the least bit bothered by her crying before. You even looked worried about her.” 

He doesn’t have anything to say to that. All he can do is struggle to return to his neutral mask and hope his emotions inside follow suit. A moment of silence interjects itself between them. 

“You know,” Lenny begins, “you’re a nicer person than you’d like people to believe, Mott. I think, maybe, you’ve even tricked yourself.” 

He keeps his mouth shut. The neutral mask remains. After a while, Lenny sighs. 

“I know I ain’t gonna change your mind. You gotta see it for yourself. I won’t make you keep the bandana, but I ain’t gonna make you earn it, either. You’re free to do with it what you want. Throw it out, if that’ll make you feel better.” 

Throw it out?! 

He must make some kind of mortified face, because Lenny laughs. “It was just a suggestion! Again, it’s your choice.” 

He looks back down at the bandana between his hands. He should throw it out. Right? That’s the responsible thing to do, to keep himself from corrupting it any further. For some reason, that notion just doesn’t sit right with him. His first, immediate thought is that it feels wrong because it’s actually _right_ , and that his selfish motivations are dictating his actions again. 

But if it was wrong, would Lenny let him do it? 

Lenny is good. Lenny does things because they’re right, and honest, and selfless. If he’s willing to let Montgomery keep it… maybe… 

Maybe it’s not so selfish, after all. 

Does that mean his desires aren’t always selfish? 

“I think,” he says, tucking the bandana closer to himself, “That I’ll keep it.” 

Lenny’s smile shines brighter than the moon. 

“I’m glad.” 

Something warm springs in his chest, flooding him with abundant emotions that he could only describe as good. And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel guilty about that. 

“Oi! Get out here, you lousy, no good bastards! I know you’re in there!” 

It’s not the worst wake-up call Montgomery’s ever had, but at the very least it’s top ten. 

Grumpy and disoriented, Montgomery squints his eyes open and immediately regrets it when the sun burns in his vision. He groans, displeased as an angry fist pounds viciously on Bela’s front door. Wide-Awake-Montgomery would at least recognize the potential danger of a furious stranger pounding on his door. His groggy, weary self is much less considerate of the threat. 

“Go away,” he moans, tucking his face against Hilda’s leg. Not very comfortable, but effective for blocking out light. 

Beside him, Lenny pops up a sleepy head. “Huh? Mott? What’s happening?” 

He barely registers that Bela is standing beside the door, tense. “It’s the mercenary boss. He’s… pretty upset about us breaking out and taking stuff.” 

Montgomery waves a hand angrily, as if it will get the krookodile to leave them alone. Annoyingly, the rabid knocking persists. 

Nervously, Bela starts, “What should we—?” 

_CRASH_!

Dust and wood splinters and suffocating stench rush in through the shattered door. If he wasn’t awake before, he’s at full attention now. In the broken doorway stands the krookodile, filling up the entire space and seething. At his sides, his mercenaries scowl and spit. He gnashes his teeth, infuriated. 

“Y’all owe me some payments,” he snarls, his voice a low growl. “The money and the bandanas; cough ‘em up.” 

Skittish, Bela stammers, “We—we don’t have the money.” 

“Oh? Is that so?” The krookodile sneers, gesturing to his henchmen. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to give you some incentive to find it.” 

With a sharp nod, the mercenaries run off into the town. As soon as they see a townsperson or a breakable object, they shove it to the ground. People cry out as they’re pushed around, and yelps of surprise ring after shatters of glass. Bela, gapes, horrified at the scene. 

They’re just… trashing the town. More than they already have. 

Montgomery could be outraged at their pettiness if he wasn’t internally rolling his eyes at their immaturity. 

“H-hey! Cut that out!” Bela protests, trying to push past the boss to stop the others. With a meaty claw, he grabs her by the neck and throws her back. She staggers and falls against Hilda, who’s slowly stirring from her deep slumber. Pushing herself back to her feet, she cries, “You swore to protect us!” 

“We had an arrangement,” the boss states, the words rumbling deep in his throat. “You pay us, we protect you. But y’all decided to get sneaky on us and steal from right under our noses!” 

“One of my people needed medicine to save her son; I beg you, have a little empathy—” 

“Empathy ain’t shit, sweetheart,” he rasps, and if he was smoking a cigar Montgomery is sure he would’ve blown all the smoke in their faces at this point. “Economics is where it’s at.” 

Outside, the sound of wailing grows louder as more goods and homes are smashed. Bela stares at the boss with a blank, empty expression. 

Then, she narrows her eyes. She snarls. 

With a furious battle cry, she charges the krookodile head-on, slamming her skull into his soft belly. 

He wheezes as the wind is knocked out of him, stumbling out of the house and flailing for something to hold onto. He manages to grip a nearby, rickety pole that barely supports a platform of ceramic jars. The momentum rips the pole out from the ground and sends to jars toppling to the dirt, smashing them into jagged bits. Slipping, the krookodile falls into the pile of shattered glass, hissing in pain as it cuts into his skin. The fury in Bela’s eyes doesn’t abate. 

Standing over the boss, she proclaims, “I paid you to protect us; I let you get away with more than I should’ve, all to keep my people safe—no more!” Stomping a hoof on the ground and lowering her head, she declares, “Today, I’ll crush you myself!” 

The battle starts up in a whirlwind, Bela thrashing and raging with a vengeance and the boss scrambling to keep up. Mercenaries pause in their destructive efforts in equal parts confusion and astonishment, watching the unlikely brawl play out. Montgomery jumps to his feet, unsheathing his scalchops. He’s not going to stand around and wait for them to gather their bearings. Before they can decide to resume wreaking havoc, he rushes out and slashes at the nearest mercenary. 

It’s the krokorok, who’s too busy staring wide-eyed at his boss getting whipped to notice Montgomery coming. A direct strike to the chest blows him back quite a ways and weakens him considerably. A nearby mercenary swings a fist at him in retaliation, but he fluidly ducks and returns with a sizable hit. 

He’s not the only one intent on laying waste to these scumbags. Hilda marches out of the house, erupting volcanoes in her eyes. The mercenaries closest to her scamper back and start running. Before they can even make it out of range, she raises her front legs and brings them down with a mighty roar. The earth shakes and splinters beneath her, knocking her opponents off their feet. 

“Stop! Stealing!” She bellows, smashing her feet into the soil. Craters form under her as she pounds away, quaking the surface and striking anyone in her range. Mercenaries, with snot and tears running down their faces, fight in vain to crawl away. She only hammers them more. “Stop it!” 

Montgomery is very grateful, in this moment, that she’s more or less on his side. 

He doesn’t notice the mercenary sneaking up behind him until it’s too late. Because by then, they’ve already knocked him on his back and have a fist raised to pummel him. But before they can even swing, a flurry of leaves crash into them and send them flying. 

Montgomery turns and grins at Lenny. “Thanks.” 

“Someone’s gotta watch your back,” Lenny quips, completely unawares as a mercenary prowls up behind him. Montgomery easily bats them aside with a blast of water. In surprise, Lenny blinks at the soaked and fallen enemy behind him. “Oh. And, uh, I guess someone’s gotta watch my back, too.” 

He can’t help the laugh that escapes him as he dives back into the fray. 

Punches and kicks and even a few bites are exchanged in the scuffle, all while Bela utterly demolishes the krookodile boss. As it becomes more clear that the boss has no chance of winning, his mercenaries grow restless. Their attacks are more haphazard, more reckless. They miss more than they don’t, and they’re knocked off their feet too many times to count. The more they fail, the more townsfolk come to watch the spectacle. It almost becomes a comedic event, watching the brutes who took advantage of them for so long finally get what they deserved. Laughter rings in the air with every slip and blunder. Montgomery finds himself feeding into the theatrics of it, just a little, and performing a goofy bow with every foe he takes down. 

In all, it’s a pretty satisfying fight. And it feels like the right thing to do. It really, really does. 

But it all ends in a flash of light. Bela, in her small frame, looms over the massive krookodile as light encases her. Her sickly, frail figure expands, growing in height and weight. Power surges through the air; crackles of electricity heighten the tension. Then, in one, resolute snap, the light disappears to reveal a newly evolved zebstrika. 

“I don’t need you anymore,” Bela declares, holding her head high. “I will protect my people on my own.” 

With thunderous applause, the townsfolk leap into the air and cheer. Outnumbered and outmatched, the mercenaries and their boss scamper off with their tails between their legs. Bela watches them go with a keen eye, ensuring they don’t cause any trouble on their way out. And even if they thought of getting up to something, Hilda’s terrifying shout of “And no more stealing!” probably squashed that notion. 

It takes a few hours to bring the loot stashed in the mercenary base into the center of town, and it will surely take even longer to redistribute it. But Montgomery helps Bela check and double check the numbers while Lenny hands out each item to the ecstatic civilians. Hilda helps hand things out, too—that is, until she spots something and freezes in place. 

For a moment, he worries that the mercenaries came back for round two. He immediately braces himself for a fight, but when he follows Hilda’s line of vision, all he sees is an unfamiliar woman. 

“Anastasia…?” Hilda utters, like she’s seen a goddess. 

The woman, a musharna, floats forward. She regards the world around her with casual indifference, as if she’s seen other versions of this universe and this one simply doesn’t entertain her. But when her eyes fall on Hilda, a certain softness envelops them, like she’s the one good thing this world ever created. 

Montgomery suddenly gets the feeling he should give them some privacy. 

“Hilda,” Anastasia greets, her voice calm and serene. The anxiousness in her eyes betrays her true feelings, though. “I’ve looked everywhere for you after our fight. It’s been months.” 

Lenny, who seems much less bothered by an unintentional breach of privacy, stands by him to watch the scene unfold. It gives Montgomery the thought that he should know this woman somehow… 

Wait. Fight? Months? 

This lady is Hilda’s _wife_?! Whenever he envisioned her wife, he always imagined someone who looked exactly like Hilda and maybe had an eyepatch. He never thought she’d be some ethereal, gorgeous woman. But when he looks in her eyes, he gets the notion that she’s just as capable of violence as Hilda is. 

“Anastasia,” Hilda repeats, as if it’s all she can say. “You’re here.” 

Anastasia nods. “I saw you drive away those thugs. I saw you tell them to quit stealing.” 

Hilda nods, a hint of shame in her expression. “I… I have been thinking. A lot. Since I stole and lost my job.” 

“I can see that.” For a moment, even Anastasia’s cool mask of nonchalance flickers with something like regret. “I never meant to push you away, you know.” 

“I’ve learned how to weave,” Hilda blurts. Montgomery’s never seen her so… awkward? Starstruck? Both? “I might not get another baking job. But I can provide for us.” 

A smile dances across Anastasia’s face. Montgomery has a feeling that’s a rare occurrence for her. 

“I’d like that,” she says, softly. Then, gently placing a hand on Hilda’s arm, she entreats, “Come home.” 

Lenny gasps, gripping Montgomery’s arm like he wants to rip it off. He winces. 

Hilda nods, tears in her eyes. “Yes. I’d want nothing more.” 

Lenny’s grip tightens. He shakes Montgomery with vigor. He can’t tell whether he’s going to lose his arm or throw up first. 

“It’s happening!” Lenny sings in a whisper, still shaking Montgomery. He squeals with delight as Hilda bestows her homemade ribbon upon Anastasia’s head. “Oh, I’m just so happy for her! Isn’t love wonderful, Mott?” 

“Uh-huh,” he answers dumbly, too dizzy to form a more coherent response. “Sure is.” 

Lenny finally stops shaking him in favor of leaning his head on Montgomery’s arm and sighing contentedly. “This whole mess really turned out good, huh? The town is free from those mercenaries, Bela is picking up the reins, Hilda is reunited with her one true love…” 

For a moment, they stand in comfortable silence, like farmers surveying lands that have just begun to blossom. 

Then, Lenny pipes up again. “Do you know why I asked to come along with you, Mott?” 

Montgomery opens his mouth to answer, then promptly shuts it. It never really occurred to him to wonder why Lenny joined him. But the more he thinks about it, the weirder the question seems to him. Why would anyone join a complete stranger on their impossible mission to defeat a legendary dragon? 

“I wanted to explore,” he explains, with a longing glimmer in his eye. “I mentioned to you before that I had never really left my home in Wheatfield Village, and, well… things get boring pretty fast. You don’t get to see much of anything.” 

Montgomery understands that. Lenny’s house was nothing more than dirt and wood put together—not exactly the most entertaining place to be. 

“I want to see places. Meet people. Try new things.” Lenny watches the running river in front of them like he’s wondering where each particle of water will end up. “And, well… I guess I thought you’d be a pretty good ticket to that. Sorry if that offends you.” 

Montgomery regards him for a moment. Then, he shrugs. 

“I’m not offended. I’m just glad I was in the right place at the right time to meet you and bring you along.” 

Lenny looks up at him with wide eyes. “Really?” 

“Really.” Montgomery holds up the end of his red bandana, as if to gesture with it. With a smile, he says, “I mean, we’re adventuring pals, aren’t we?” 

Lenny stares at him, silent and expressionless. Montgomery wonders if he broke him. 

“Uh, Lenny?” He asks, waving a hand in front of his face. “Are you—?” 

In a flash, a blinding light envelops Lenny. 

Montgomery’s eyes are forced shut by the searing white, and he raises his arms to block what glare he can. A small rush of wind scatters some nearby leaves, as if calling them to Lenny. A few gasps and exclamations of shock rise up from the street. 

By the time the light dies down at Montgomery can safely see again, he has to look up to meet Lenny’s eyes. Way up. 

Way, way, _way_ up. 

A leavanny stands where Lenny once stood—or, still stands. It’s still Lenny, but… different. His body is slender, his waist lithe, his legs impossibly long. In amazement, Lenny marvels at his new form, gasping and laughing as if he can’t find the words for it. 

Lenny spins around. “I’m… I’m—!” 

Beautiful. 

“Tall,” Montgomery blurts. 

Lenny looks down at him, smiling. Like he’s an endearing child, he pats Montgomery’s head. Montgomery scowls and swats his hand away, much to Lenny’s obvious delight. 

“You’re so tiny now!” Lenny coos. 

“I’ll kill you,” he threatens. Lenny just laughs. 

A booming laugh distracts him from making good on his threat. When he and Lenny turn to face Hilda, she’s regarding Lenny with shining eyes. 

Slinging an arm around him in a crushing hug, she proclaims, “Little Lenny has grown!” 

Bela is smiling. “Wow! This day really is a cause for celebration. Although, we don’t have much to entertain with right now…” 

Lenny smiles, hugging Hilda and Montgomery close to him. “We have each other. Isn’t that enough?” 

Bela’s smile turns into a grin. 

Montgomery clears his throat and awkwardly suggests, “Uh. I can sing?” 

Bela’s grin turns into an unrestrained, delighted laugh. 

For the rest of the day, they return the townsfolk their belongings. They spend a few more days in Moressley town than Montgomery had anticipated, but he ended up glad about it. It gave them more time to see Bela prepared to lead, Agnes’ child walking healthier than ever before, and the townsfolk slowly repairing their broken lives. 

It also gave Hilda a chance to approach them, a few days later, bittersweet at the prospect of returning home. Eager to see her family again, upset to see Lenny and Montgomery go. Lenny and Hilda exchanged teary goodbyes that day, and even Montgomery felt a pang of sadness at losing her. 

But as for that night, Montgomery sang for the town, more beautifully than any caged bird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Bela is the hero, Hilda is reunited with her wife, and Lenny has evolved! That's a lot of successes in one chapter! Surely nothing bad will happen next chapter! 
> 
> ...Anyways. 
> 
> As always, thank you for taking the time to read! If you're enjoying it so far, please feel free to leave a comment. I love to hear from you guys! Don't forget to check in every Wednesday for the update of Thunderlight!


	8. Sapphire City

Mott will admit, travelling without Hilda is different. He’d kinda gotten used to their strange triad dynamic. But now, with just him and Lenny, he bears the brunt of all of Lenny’s teasing. 

“You’re so teeny tiny!” Lenny coos, patting his head. 

Mott swats him away and snaps, “Just wait until I evolve, we’ll see who’s tiny.” 

“It’s you! You’re tiny!” 

Mott sighs. 

The journey to Sapphire City has been a long one, even without the Moressley Town stop. Travelling by foot is both tiring and something Mott is not accustomed to, especially now that he has to try and keep up with Lenny’s monstrously long legs. Sometimes Lenny gets too excited about the journey and races off in a flash. Then, he has to race right back to avoid losing Mott. 

It’s clearly exhausting Lenny to keep running back and forth, but he doesn’t stop doing it. He can’t stop prattling on and on about how excited he is to get to Sapphire City, because he’s never been to a city that big before, Mott, and oh do you think they’ll have parades, and Mott, have you ever been to Sapphire City? 

Mott actually has been to Sapphire City quite a few times, to visit a nobleman who was a potential suitor. Ingram Aldrich was his name, an affluent businessman who founded Sapphire City as a business venture of sorts. The area is rich with natural beauty and resources, making it ideal for both tourism and industry. Therefore, Aldrich poured money into the area and created a city of innumerable attractions and endless thrill, and people from all over the world flocked there to either live and benefit from the richness of the area or to spend a weekend and forget about their troubles. And if Sapphire City is good for anything, it’s good for forgetting troubles. 

The city is a sprawling, glimmering array of pristine buildings and glowing streets. Lights flash and spark in every window, colors dance in the air, and music rivets through the walls. The entire city has a pulse of its own, pounding to the heartbeats of every wild dreamer that steps foot across its pearly gates. 

In every door, there’s someone handing you a glass of champagne. Around every corner, there’s a band in full swing. Festivals and parades and parties are commonplace, but they never grow boring. There’s always some sort of twist or pop that catches you off guard and makes you crave more. 

Excitement becomes a drug, there. Thrill is injected straight into the veins. Mott thought at first that a place like that would be perfect for him, and that if he had to marry some boring rich guy twenty years older than him to do it—well, hey, other kids had married into worse. But then, he realized what a trap that place could become. When you’re addicted to thrill, and the only place to find such a buzz is in Sapphire City, where else can you go? 

You can’t leave, then. A lot of people started realizing that very thing when they got bored of the thrills in Sapphire City and craved more—but the city didn’t have more to offer. People went crazy. They tried to find a high in any and every dark corner of the world that they could. Drugs, alcohol, gambling, pokémon trafficking… Sapphire City is known for these things, too. 

Mott brought it up to Aldrich, once, while the man and his father were discussing the possibility of an arrangement between them. Mott suggested Aldrich do something about the rampant corruption in his city; he even drafted up a plan to help. All that got him was a broken marriage contract and a verbal beating from his father that night. 

The city is an enigma. It brings out the best and the worst in people. That’s why Mott is more than a little nervous about bringing Lenny there. 

Sure, Lenny has proved time and time again that he is capable and resourceful. But he’s still just a sheltered country boy. He’s never been to a city like this before. Introducing him to the great parts in the city is bound to be a wonderful experience, but what if he meets the horrid parts of it first? 

Worst of all, what if he meets it without Mott being there to watch his back? 

A lot of things could happen to a naive country boy in a big, bustling place like Sapphire City. Mott will have to keep an eye on him, make sure that no trouble comes his way, and—

Lenny gasps, horrified. “Oh _god_.” 

Mott’s head snaps up, alert. What did he miss? How could Lenny already have gotten himself in trouble?! But when he focuses, his face goes slack. 

Sapphire City lies before them. But the buildings don’t stand. 

Hunks of metal, slabs of concrete, and stone mix in a disastrous pile of rubble. Sparse fires rage in contained corners of the city, the unburning potions already blackened by their own dead fires. Smoke rises from the city. It’s the only thing that seems to move in all the land. 

“The… the people,” Lenny utters, staring at the wreckage in terror, “where are all the people?” 

The amount of smoke is too much for the few fires burning now. The other fires must’ve died out recently, but since there’s no one putting them out, they must’ve burned on their own. Whatever happened here, happened not long before he and Lenny arrived. If there were any people alive, they’d be evacuating or fighting the fires right now. 

Mott deliberately ignores the sickening burning smell in the air, the one that most definitely doesn’t smell like smoldering rubble. 

He swallows. “They’re not here. We were too late.” 

Lenny looks at him, mortified. “You reckon Zekrom did this?” 

“Who else?” He asks, struggling to keep his voice steady as he approaches the city. “Come on. Let’s see if there’s any straggling survivors.” 

Walking through the city is an out of body experience. He understands what he’s doing. He comprehends that his feet are moving, one in front of the other, and that they’re taking him somewhere. But he doesn’t process it. His brain knows that this is the lively city, the city that never sleeps, the glamourous Sapphire City. For some reason, every fiber of his being fights to accept that. 

Between Moressley Town and Sapphire City, two places he’s visited in his past, both have been horribly reduced from their former glory due to Zekrom. Whether indirectly, with Moressley Town, or… like this. Seeing this destruction up close, he can’t help but face what he’s up against all over again. 

Zekrom. He’s supposed to beat Zekrom. The creature that demolished this entire city within an astonishingly short period of time, if his accounts are to be believed. When he left Moressley City, Sapphire City was still standing. That was only a day and a half ago. For a massive city like this to be leveled so thoroughly in such a short time—the kind of power required for that is unthinkable. 

That kind of power could kill him in an instant. 

The air around them is thick with electricity and smoke. Remnants of Zekrom’s vicious attacks still course through the fallen beams of the buildings, shooting sparks at anything that stands too close. Lenny jumps when one of the sparks gets too close for comfort and nearly burns his skin. 

A nervous laugh escapes him. “I guess I, um, never realized how dangerous Zekrom could be, you know?” 

Mott nods, silent. He understands the feeling. With so many weeks spent away from Zekrom after their first encounter, he had allowed himself to grow complacent. Aware only of the existence of his goal, like it was some faraway, abstract concept. Standing here, in the middle of this burnt and ravaged city, Mott can’t help but feel the full weight of his mission all over again. 

This is impossible. He’s going to die. 

Before his mind can stray too far with that thought, he hears a commotion echo through the dead streets. It sets all his fur on end. Who could possibly be here? Why would they be here?

Both he and Lenny stop at the same time, holding their breath. They look into each other’s eyes as the sound grows and disturbs the unsettling peace. Mott’s ears twitch toward the sound to get a better grasp on the situation. 

At first, the sounds are too far to make heads or tails of, and they meld into the creaks and groans of the dilapidated city. But soon enough, he hears the desperate plea of a woman, begging for help. 

He takes off, racing toward the noise. “This way, Lenny!” 

Lenny hurries after him, quickly catching up and overtaking him. He slows down again to follow Mott. Frowning, Mott picks up the pace. 

After a few twists and turns, they stumble upon an alleyway filled with rubble. In the narrow passage-way, an audino woman backs against the wall while two bandits close in around her: a pansear and a panpour. Immediate recognition flares through him. 

The bandits who robbed him all those weeks ago!

“Hey!” He snaps, storming into the alley. They’re startled at first, but when they see him, they relax considerably. One of them even sneers. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

“Nothing that concerns you,” the pansear jeers, turning her nose up at him. “Why don’t you get lost before we kick the shit out of you again?” 

“Where’s your other friend?” Mott demands, gesturing for the audino to get behind him. She hurries over. His eyes flick to and from his surroundings; he doesn’t see anyone hiding, or even a place to hide. “The pansage, your little ringleader. Where are they?” 

The pansear’s sneer turns into a scowl. “None of your business.” 

“Yeah!” The panpour laughs, high and shrill. His teeth flash in a sharp grin. “Mind your own business, before we come over there and teach you a—” 

A flurry of leaves rush at the water-type before he can even finish his sentence. 

With shocking speed, Lenny lunges at the pansear, closing the considerable distance between them in a mere second. Before she can even recoil, he strikes, slashing her to the ground. Leaping back, Lenny puts distance between himself and the bandits once more, standing poised in front of Mott and the audino. 

Stunned and trembling, the bandits stare at Lenny with slack expressions. Then, they scramble to their feet and take off with their tails between their legs, shouting, “We’ll be back! And we’ll beat up your scary bug friend, too!” 

“Scary...?” Lenny repeats to himself, tilting his head to the side. “I ain’t scary.” 

Mott is still staring at the scene that Lenny caused, dealt with, and finished all in the span of a few moments. Lenny has always been capable, but with his evolution came an insurmountable speed that could scare the living daylights out of any opponent. There in one moment, gone in a flash. 

He decides he doesn’t want to imagine what fighting Lenny for real would look like. 

Instead, he turns to the audino, who has been quivering behind him for some time, now. He catches a hint of moisture in her eyes and guesses that fright isn’t the only reason she’s shaking. 

“I’m Mott. This is Lenny,” he introduces, gesturing when Lenny waves. “Are you okay?” 

She takes a deep, shaky breath. “I… I’m Ada. Thank you. For helping me.” 

“What are you doing here?” Lenny wonders, tapping his hands together worriedly. “This place isn’t really fit for, well. Anybody.” 

She opens her mouth to answer. But all that comes out are tears. 

Mott flounders, awkwardly. Luckily, Lenny swoops in to save the day, patting her shoulder and offering her comforts. It takes a few minutes of consoling and patience before her tears dry, and another few minutes before she musters up the strength to speak. 

“I’m sorry. It’s just… my son. He’s all I have left, but he was in the city when Zekrom—well, when Zekrom…” 

Mott nods. She doesn’t have to finish her sentence for him to get the drift. Zekrom killed her son, just like he killed everyone here. Somehow, seeing firsthand the pain Zekrom inflicts in other people is a wake-up call of its own. 

It’s not just about him, anymore. What will happen to Lenny on this trip? 

“His body is here, somewhere,” Ada states, before he can go too far down that mental rabbit hole, “I just can’t find it. I want to find him, to give him a proper burial before the nobles finalize their bids on the land and demolish what’s left.” 

“Wait,” Mott blurts, stunned, “nobles are already bidding on the land? _Already_?” 

She nods. “It was announced a few hours ago.” 

Mott and Lenny share a revolted and mortified glance. Rich nobles bidding on favorable land that has fallen into disrepair aren’t exactly rare. But to place bids so soon after such a great tragedy is sort of—sort of—gross. 

Really, really gross. 

“Please,” she begs, gripping Mott’s hands. “I’ve been searching everywhere, I can’t find him. I don’t have much money, but I can compensate you with what I have. Just please, please help me!” 

Mott removes his hands from hers to make a placating gesture. 

“We’re not gonna take your money. Do you know what district of the city he was around when the attack happened? Was it here?” He asks. She nods. “Okay, then, we’ll search this area first. Come with us, okay? That way you can tell us where you’ve already looked and we can keep those bandits away from you.” 

It isn’t until she agrees and they start searching that Mott notices Lenny looking at him strangely. It’s not a bad sort of strange, just unfamiliar. The way he’s smiling suggests happiness, but happiness with what? 

He can only take the confusion for an hour before he asks Lenny about it. 

“I’m proud of you,” Lenny says, beaming. 

Mott immediately gets back to work and hopes the flush on his face isn’t obvious. 

Searching for a corpse in a ruined city, as it turns out, is exhausting work. Not very rewarding, either, because the end result will always be the same: a dead kid. Or even worse, no dead kid and no closure. This task feels an awful lot like a quest designed to fail, or a story without a happy ending. 

Ada never slows down, though. Even as the sun creeps higher in the sky and the smoldering city roasts the air around them, she doesn’t relent. Mott has had to pull her away from her work several times just to make sure she’s staying hydrated. 

Lenny, for all his speed, doesn’t have a ton of stamina. His twiggy body can’t support extended periods of strenuous activity, and lifting heavy debris certainly falls into that category. He often has to take breaks to sit down and catch his breath. Mott can’t imagine the sweltering heat is all too helpful for a bug and grass type, either. 

The work is arduous. Slow. Unfulfilling. With the sun beating relentlessly down on their backs and the smoke choking their lungs, the last thing Mott needs right now is another problem to lump on to this disaster. 

Cue his problem. 

From above them, the sound of high-pitched laughter breaks the grave silence. Ada jumps with a start, and Lenny whips around in a flash. When Mott looks up, he’s irritated but not surprised to see the pansear and the panpour have returned. 

“Told you we’d be back,” the fire-type taunts, swinging down from a fallen building to land in the street. The panpour follows her, landing on the opposite side of them and closing them in. Rubbing her hands together eagerly, the pansear says, “And this time, we brought company.” 

At the top of the fallen building, the pansage emerges. Slowly, they meander their way down to the ground like they have all the time in the world.

“A spry thing, aren’t you?” Mott drawls sarcastically. The pansage snarls. “I was wondering where you were. It was almost lonely, beating your buddies up without you there.” 

“I heard ya got a tough bug friend to fight your battles for ya,” the pansage rasps, a dark expression on their face. “So fair’s fair, and my fellas here called me out to play.” 

Mott arches a brow. “Really? Three against two is fair?” Then, he shrugs. “Well, I guess I’ll allow it, since we’re obviously much stronger than you.” 

The pansage growls. “Enough talk. Give up the lady or regret it.” 

Mott unsheathes his scalchops. “Nah, let’s just fight.” 

With a furious roar, the pansage leaps at him. 

The brawl erupts into chaos immediately, with the other two bandits rushing Lenny and Ada. Mott’s heart leaps into his throat at the thought of Lenny facing two enemies at once, but there isn’t much he can do about now. His own foe is relentless in their attacks, punching and scratching with fury. Mott ducks and dodges with ease, wondering how he managed to get beaten so terribly by these three before. Obviously, he was in a terrible mental state to even let them get the jump on him, much less take him down. 

When the pansage throws a particularly off-centered punch, Mott grips their wrist and throws them over his shoulder. He steals the spare moment to rake his eyes over Lenny and take in his injuries. His body is littered with minor scrapes and burns. He’s panting heavily, the exhausting day taking a toll on his low stamina. If they’re going to win this battle without significant downsides, they need to end it quickly. 

The panpour, Lenny has already dealt with. But the pansear is giving him more trouble, keeping him at bay with fire. Lenny tries to dash and close in, but the embers burst into flames and nearly light him ablaze. Lenny staggers back just in time, but it doesn’t keep Mott from shouting, “Lenny, switch!” 

With a mighty heave, he throws the pansage—who feels far too light to be alive—toward Lenny. Lenny bounds away from the fire-type, rushing the pansage. Before the pansear can retaliate, Mott swoops in and crashes into her with a wall of water. The pansage tries to outmaneuver Lenny, but Lenny is far too quick. He slashes with a powerful move, striking the pansage into a wall. 

Horrified, the other two bandits gasp. Rather than start up another vicious attack, they jump to their feet and race to their fallen comrade. The panpour tries to help them up, but the pansage stubbornly bats them away. Only to fall to a knee right after. 

The pansear glares at them like they committed some horrific atrocity. “We’ll be back!” 

“Don’t,” Mott deadpans, sheathing his scalchops. 

They ignore him, clambering up the crumbling walls to escape for a second time. Mott watches them go, displeased. Lenny watches them go, too. But his expression is less irritable and more thoughtful. 

By the time the day has nearly come and gone, they’re still no closer to finding Ada’s child. In slight desperation and maybe delirium, Ada wonders if their fruitless endeavors could mean that her child is still alive, somewhere. Mott doesn’t want her to get her hopes up, but he doesn’t want to crush her, either. So he just silently nods and utters a quiet, “Maybe.” 

He’s not going to tell a grieving mother that her child probably burned to death. Or was buried under all the falling rubble. Or was electrocuted into ash by a legendary dragon. None of those options seem like a great way to boost morale. 

As the sun begins to dip beneath the horizon, the city smoke becomes all the more pronounced. The glaring red sunset strikes the smoldering remains of the city like it’s bathing it in blood. Shadows, lanky and dark and jagged, cut through the streets. The heat hardly lets up as the sun lowers. 

It gets so bad that Lenny begins to wobble. Mott pauses in lifting a plank of wood to watch him. Lenny stands still, staring at nothing, wide-eyed. Then, eyes drooping and stumbling back, Lenny faints. 

Mott drops the plank and catches him before he hits the ground. An exclamation of surprise escapes Ada, and she scolds herself for not being more attentive. 

“I’m a doctor,” she explains, as she sets Lenny down and checks him over. “I should’ve noticed he was dehydrated, but I haven’t exactly been the most focused, today.” 

Mott nods in understanding. He tries to imagine what it must be like to lose a child. He doesn’t have any kids of his own, obviously, but he has parents. He imagines, if they lost him, that they’d put a sizable reward up for anyone who could find his body. But he can’t imagine his regal father digging around in the soot for even a second. 

By the time Lenny wakes up and they’ve gotten some water and berries into him, he’s still a little groggy. His head rests on Mott's lap as Ada checks over him again. He stares up at the smoky sky. 

“Do you ever wonder,” he begins, only to trail off. Eventually, he starts again. “Do you ever wonder why someone would do something like this?” 

“All the time,” Ada sighs, too quietly for Lenny to hear. 

“I mean, why is Zekrom doing this?” Lenny babbles. Mott tries to get him to drink more water; he’s clearly not thinking straight. But Lenny brushes him aside. “What does it stand to gain from all this chaos? What’s motivating it?” 

“Nothing is motivating it,” he states, urging Lenny to take another sip. Grudgingly, he does. Even that small sip makes him perk up like a houseplant. “It’s just attacking because it can and no one can stop it.” 

“But _why_?” Lenny presses, more alert now. “Why does it want to attack?” 

His questions are weird, even for the strange realm of the latest Zekrom gossip. Mott has never heard anyone question the beast’s motives, of all things. 

“There’s nothing to it. It’s not that deep,” he argues.

Lenny meets his gaze with equal stubbornness. “Only if you ignore the root of the problem.” 

They stare each other down, silent and uncompromising. 

Ada claps her hands together. “All right, the heat is really getting to everyone, it seems. Let’s stop for tonight. Okay?” 

Reluctantly, they nod in agreement. 

The moon rises, grinning down at them through the remaining layers of smoke. Most of the heavy smog has drifted away, now, but some still lingers. It blots out the stars and makes Mott cough every now and then. Other than that the howling of the wind through the broken buildings, there is no sound. Mott tries to ignore the unsettling realization that the loudest city in the world became the quietest in mere days. 

He studies the sky, barely able to see the brightest of stars. On another day, he might point the constellations out to Lenny and tell him the stories. Things like that fascinate him and leave him pestering Mott for more. But tonight, he’s far too wrapped up in his own thoughts to muster the focus for that. 

What’s Zekrom’s motive? What kind of crazy question is that? 

Everyone knows Zekrom is nothing more than a bloodthirsty beast. It attacks without rhyme or reason, striking the tallest fortresses to the lowest villages during day or night. No one can stop it, so it doesn’t stop. It just ravages across the region, bringing storms and death along with it. 

So why does Lenny’s question keep bothering him? 

His mind wears itself out thinking and then ignoring and then thinking in some kind of torturous loop that he nearly exhausts himself to sleep. But a scuffle snaps him out of his trance and jolts him upright. His brain processes it in fragments. 

Ada, screaming—

Surrounding her, the bandits; they returned—

They’ve grabbed her arms and they’re _dragging her away_ —!

He staggers to his feet, still fighting the lingering clumsiness of sleep, and whips out a scalchop. Beside him, Lenny scrambles awake, eyes wide with fright. In the fray, Ada punches the panpour in the face. Clutching his nose, he slips and falls on his butt. 

“Hey! Let her go!” Mott shouts, charging them. He slashes at the pansear with water pulsing through his weapon, and she falls in an instant. Turning on the pansage, he kicks them in the chest, slugs the panpour when he approaches, and clocks the pansage one last time. Grabbing Ada’s hand and pulling her to him, he demands, “Just what the hell is your guys’ problem?!” 

They try to leap to their feet and escape, but Lenny shoots a barrage of **String Shot** at them and keeps them in place. They fight and struggle in vain, but Mott knows from personal experience that they’re not going anywhere with that stuff around them. 

“Why don’t you go find someone else to bother? We’ve beat you three times now,” he snaps, sheathing his shell. “What are you, dense?” 

The pansage glowers and spits at them, refusing to say a word. It’s the panpour who tearfully begs, “Please let us go!” 

Mott scoffs. “Right, that’s happening. No, I think we’ll leave you here until that stuff melts off you.” 

“But that could take days!” The water-type protests. “Please, we just need a doctor!” 

Furiously, the pansage kicks their partner. But that doesn’t take back what was already said. 

“A doctor?” Ada repeats. “What do you need a doctor for?” 

The panpour squirms anxiously under the scrutinizing glare of the pansage, so the pansear pipes up, “Our boss is sick!” 

Indignantly, the pansage barks, “I am not!” 

“You are too!” The pansear bites back. “They’re just getting worse and worse; they can’t even travel far enough to leave the city. We didn’t know what else to do.” 

Ada steps forward, inspecting the pansage. After a long moment of deliberation, she announces, “You’re malnourished. Likely affected with jaundice. Do you eat, or do you just drink?” 

The pansage flushes and looks at their feet from the evident scolding, grumbling something incoherent. 

“Is that why you were trying to kidnap me, instead of just asking me to help like a normal person?” Ada inquires, arching a brow. The bandits all shrink in shame and mutter blame amongst themselves. “You know I would’ve helped if you’d just asked, right? No need for all this senseless violence.” 

They sulk like children being reprimanded. Which, they are small enough to be children. And light enough. And… 

“How old are you three?” Mott demands. 

Defiantly, the pansage doesn’t answer. But with a cheery chirp, the panpour replies, “Fifteen!” before getting smacked by his friends. 

Something inside of Ada suddenly bursts to life, like a dusty switch being turned back on. “Fifteen?! Why aren’t you in school? And why are you drinking? Where are your parents? Are you orphans? You must be, with all this Zekrom nonsense going on…” 

She unbinds the teenagers from Lenny’s string, chastising them all the while like a worried mother. As much as the delinquents gripe and protest her scoldings, as soon as they’re freed, they linger close to her despite all the space on the street. She looks over the pansage carefully, tutting over his condition and murmuring about the antidotes she’ll have to buy. 

“They were just scared,” Lenny sighs to Mott, sympathetic. “They didn’t know what else to do.” 

“Yeah,” Mott agrees. Watching them unwind with Ada makes him feel better on that front, at least. “They’ll be okay, now.” 

After a moment of watching the scene unfold, Lenny turns and fixes Mott with a sobering expression. “No one acts without a reason, Mott.” 

“...Yeah,” he says after a while. “Yeah, you’re right.” 

He doesn’t like the ominous feeling that admission comes with. If no one acts without motives, then no result is brought about without desire. He looks around the once lively city that surely became the tomb for thousands. 

If no result is brought about without desire, what kind of monster would desire this? 

And _why_? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this tour of sapphire city SUCKS lets go to las vegas
> 
> So, it sounds like there might be more to Zekrom than Mott initially thought... what do you all think? Is Zekrom mindless beast? Or is there more to the story? If so, what could possibly be going on?
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! Please let me know your thoughts in the comments below, and don't forget to come back around every Wednesday for a new update!


	9. Sapphire City Part II

For their second day of searching, they left Ada with the teenagers. The pansage isn’t in much condition to travel or search, but the other two are rather adept fighters and will be able to defend themselves and Ada if anything goes wrong. Even so, Mott and Lenny stick as close as they can while they search in case anything happens. 

The motions of lifting rubble and peering under it have grown monotonous. All they ever find is dust and scraps. A few hours ago, they actually did find a body—it scared them so much they screamed and dropped the wooden plank on it. After apologizing profusely to any lingering spirits that might have just had a board dropped on their corpse, Mott hesitantly slid it away to check for any resemblance to Ada. 

It was an elderly woman, so definitely not her young son. The gory image of the old archen with a missing leg still burns in the back of his mind. He desperately tries to forget the anguish etched into her expression. 

Her death must’ve been painful. Terrifying. He imagines everyone’s was. Which, unfortunately, loops him straight back to the question he’s been putting off all day. 

Why would anyone want this? 

Sure, there were deranged individuals in the world who killed for the thrill or the sport. Mott isn’t unaware of that. But this is different; this isn’t a few lives here and there, this is countless lives and countless families and countless children. All of Sapphire City, gone. Thousands of hopes and lives and dreams, gone. 

Why would anyone want this? 

He lifts a rock, tossing it aside to grab at a slab of wood. If Lenny was right about Zekrom, and Zekrom is being motivated by something, just how terrible of a creature is it? He’s always been under the assumption that Zekrom is simply a beast of bloodlust, driven by violent instinct and nothing more. But adding desire into the equation complicates things a bit. Desire implies consciousness. Consciousness implies an understanding of one’s actions and their influences on the world. So if Zekrom has all that, and it’s doing this anyways… does that mean Zekrom is the type of creature who gladly accepts that its actions are devastating thousands? 

Any being who willfully and carelessly accepts that they are harming another transcends to a whole new level of evil. He’s no longer dealing with a mindless beast that only knows the laws of nature. He’s dealing with someone who knows the laws of civilization, understands the morality behind them, and simply _doesn’t care_. 

His thoughts run circles around themselves for a half an hour before Lenny pipes up. “Mott, are you okay? You’re looking like a serious philosopher over there. A very angry one.” 

Mott blinks, looking up at him. Then, he looks back to the rubble he’s burrowing through and tosses some of it aside. “Just thinking.” 

Lenny sits down to catch his breath. “About?” 

Mott keeps digging. “Zekrom.” 

Lenny nods. “Oh.” 

A moment of silence settles between them. The only sound is the wind carrying dust and debris through the streets. 

Another concern arises with the thought of Zekrom’s motivations: if it truly does have desires, would discovering them help Mott to find or defeat it? If he can pinpoint its motives, maybe he can predict where it will attack next, or defend against it better, or something. Anything. Anything to stop this from happening again. 

But who is he to figure out some immortal, legendary being’s desires? 

Before he can voice his concerns to Lenny, a sound echoes through the streets. They both tense, shooting wary glances at each other. The sound clatters again, like someone shuffling through rubble. Mott’s ears twitch toward it. It’s coming from a nearby underground tunnel. 

Shivers race down his spine and his hackles rise. One time, when they got spooked by some noises at night, Lenny made fun of Mott for having his fur stand on end like a giant ball of fluff. But now, Lenny is riddled with far too much fear to bother. Tapping his hands together anxiously, his eyes dart from Mott to the open maw of the underground tunnel. Steeling himself, Mott steps in front of Lenny and approaches the tunnel. 

Slowly, cautiously, they creep toward the sounds. Every nerve in Mott’s body fires in protest, screaming at him to grab Lenny’s hand and run away. But something quieter in him tells him he has to check it out. What if it’s dangerous? What if it goes after Ada and the teens? 

_Clang_!

The sound is followed by a string of sharp curses. 

His heart races, then stops, then does somersaults. It’s not just noises down there, it’s a person. A living, breathing person. A squatter? A bandit? A survivor? Whoever they are, they’re wading through the rubble and growing closer and closer to Mott and Lenny with every passing second. 

He only gets a half of a second to wonder if they should turn and hide before a head pops out of the tunnel. 

Lenny screams. 

Mott screams. 

Torquil screams. 

With that, a rush of flames burst from his childhood friend’s neck, exploding involuntarily. Mott scrambles back, snatching Lenny just as the flames lick ever closer. Hastily, Mott releases a torrent of water to put out the flames. 

“Torquil! Torquil, cut it out, it’s Mott—er, Montgomery!” He shouts, dousing the flames. A single spark catches onto Lenny, flickering into a small flame instantly. Mott’s heart leaps into his throat. “Torquil!” 

As quickly as they came, the flames die out. When they settle, they reveal a much larger version of Torquil than he’s used to. An emboar, not a pignite, cringes sheepishly at the fire he caused. 

“Yikes,” he winces, trying to stomp it out. “Still don’t—have a—good control of this thing. Sorry, sorry, are you guys okay?” 

Hastily, Lenny shakes his hand free of the embers. Mott glances at Lenny’s hand. Only a small spot is burned, leaving it slightly red. He inspects it to ensure it’s fine before exhaling a sigh of relief. 

An irritatingly familiar voice comes from behind Torquil. “What, you hang around commonfolk, now?” 

Mott glares as Florian, newly evolved into a serperior himself, slithers out from the tunnel. Rubbing the pendant around his neck, Florian gives him a disdainful once over. “And you haven’t even evolved. That’s disappointing.” 

“Isn’t he cute?” Lenny coos, patting his head. 

Mott sputters. “I’m not cute! And I’m working on evolving, okay?!” 

Florian makes a sound that suggests he knows better. Then, his eyes slide warily to Lenny. “And who might you be?” 

Lenny perks up, as if he hadn’t nearly caught on fire and then gotten insulted by a snake. “I’m Lenny, it’s awfully nice to meet you! Do you know Mott?” 

Florian and Torquil stare at Lenny, uncomprehending. Torquil repeats, “Mott?” 

“We grew up together. It’s not that special,” Mott explains, crossing his arms over his chest. To the two nobles, he asks, “Why are you here?” 

“Well, my dad wanted me to survey the land around here, since it’s up for bids,” Torquil answers nonchalantly. Mott feels his blood run cold. “And Florian here is checking it out, too, to see if he wants to bid on it.” 

“I probably won’t,” Florian mutters, barely gazing at the area before fanning himself with his leafy tail. “That disgusting Lord Aldrich probably made a seedy mess of this place while he owned it.” 

“You guys are bidding on this place?” Mott demands, something churning inside him. “Why?” 

Torquil regards him quizzically. “Why not? It’s up for grabs and it’s in a pretty profitable area. It would do any family a lot of good to nab it while they can.” 

“The city was just destroyed a few days ago. You can’t even allow a grace period?” 

Florian scoffs. “The world doesn’t stop for sentiment, Montgomery. Case in point, your father already placed a bid.” 

Mott pauses. 

“My father?” 

“Hmm,” is all he gets from Florian, and Torquil nods. 

Father placed a bid on a city that just suffered a tremendous tragedy. Why? Why would he do that? 

Lenny must notice his somber mood, because he puts a hand on his shoulder and quickly steers the conversation away from any more bidding talk. 

“It’s so nice to meet some old friends of Mott’s! You gotta tell me all his embarrassing baby stories.” 

Wait. 

“What,” Mott utters. 

Torquil perks up. “Do you wanna hear about the time he fell asleep in the prince’s lap?” 

Lenny grins and bounces on his feet. “Do I!” 

Torquil, the damn snitch, prattles on and on about the mortifying event that still keeps him up at night. In his defense, he was four! And he didn’t know that guy was the prince! He was tired and it was past his bedtime and, well, the throne looked comfy! When Torquil finally gets to the end of the story after countless pauses for laughter and tears, Mott releases a relieved breath, knowing he’s reached the end of this torment. 

Florian, acting disinterested by flicking some ash off his body, adds, “Don’t forget the time he offered some candy to my diabetic aunt.” 

Mott groans as Torquil’s laughter starts anew and the stories begin to pile on top of each other. Lenny does nothing to discourage the steady stream of content, either. In hindsight, he probably should’ve guessed that Torquil and Lenny would be fast friends. They’re both jolly, honest people with sweet temperaments. They’re a natural fit. 

On the other hand, Florian couldn’t be further from the opposite of Lenny. He’s snobby and arrogant and rude, not matching Lenny’s affable personality at all. But Mott knows Florian pretty well, and he knows Florian’s soft spot is Torquil. Seeing Torquil laugh himself to tears brings a fleeting smile to Florian’s face now and then. Mott likes to think that maybe, just maybe, the fact that Lenny can make Torquil laugh like that gives him a pretty good score in Florian’s book. 

Eventually, Florian turns to him and says, “So. Mott, is it? When did you start going by that?” 

Mott opens his mouth, then realizes he doesn’t have an answer. When did he start answering to that? 

“Recently,” he replies with a shrug. “It’s less of a mouthful.” 

Florian only quirks a brow at him. “...I see.” Then, after a moment: “You know I’m never calling you that, right?” 

Mott can’t help the snort that escapes him. “Yeah, I figured you wouldn’t.” 

A smirk tugs on Florian’s face. “Glad to see we still know each other.” 

Mott grins. 

“So,” Torquil says, finally calming himself down from whatever laughing fit he worked himself into, “what are you two doing here?” 

“We heard Zekrom was this way,” Lenny answers. “So we came looking and found this. Then a mother asked us to find the body of her child, so, here we are.” 

Florian tenses at the explanation Lenny gives. Then, he glares straight at Mott. 

Aaaaand there goes their moment of nostalgic affection for each other. 

“You can’t be serious,” Florian snaps, his tail thrashing outward like he wants to hit him. “You’re still hunting Zekrom? When are you going to give that up?” 

“When I beat Zekrom,” he states, staring him straight in the eye. Florian’s gaze sharpens. 

Neither of them back down. 

“O-hoh-kay,” Torquil laughs uncomfortably, stepping between them like always. “Isn’t it awesome that we all ran into each other? Like, what are the odds? We should hang out, for old time’s sake. Mott, we’ll help you find the kid you’re looking for.” 

Lenny brightens up. “Really?” 

“Really! It’s the least we could do for an old friend, right Flor?” 

Florian shoots a glare at Torquil for the nickname, and Torquil stutters a correction. Only then does Florian sigh, as if he’s been put upon by some great wrong. “Fine. I suppose I have some time to waste.” 

True to his word, Torquil gets down to business almost immediately. His strength has only increased with his evolution, allowing him to pick up even the heaviest of wreckage that Lenny and Mott were forced to pass over. Having him around gives Mott hope that even if the body is trapped under a big slab of debris, they’ll still be able to find it. However, when Torquil tells Mott to hop on a boulder twice their size and then lifts it over his head, Florian shrieks for him to put it down and for Mott to get down. Then he yells at him for being idiots; so, they don’t do that again. 

The only foreseeable asset to having Florian around is his ability to fit into tight spaces. Although Lenny and Mott are pretty capable of that, Florian’s serpentine body takes it to a whole new level. He’s been slithering through cracks of immovable buildings, searching areas that would otherwise be impossible to reach. 

Although the work is still particularly taxing on Lenny, having two new friends to blabber on and on to seems to lift his spirits. He moves with more energy and enthusiasm than he has had all day, digging through debris quicker. 

The grueling work doesn’t necessarily go faster with four people, nor is it easier. But it’s nicer. As much as Mott hates to admit it, it’s nice having Torquil and Florian around. Lately, the only times he’s been around them were in stuffy, aristocratic meetings like Florian’s ascension. Places like that are chess boards laid with poison tipped traps, where everyone is holding their breath and waiting to catch you in a venomous checkmate. When they were young, they could hang out without worrying about reputation and politics and the threat of power moves. This is a lot like that. 

It’s pretty sad that searching for a corpse is the best bonding moment he’s had with them in years. 

They’ve been taking turns telling stories about their lives all day, and Mott was just about to turn to Lenny to tell him the time he and Torquil played some hilarious prank on Florian when a raging bellow disrupts the quiet. 

Startled by the sudden sound, they spin around to face a darmanitan standing on a mountain of wreckage. The darmanitan clenches his massive hands and unclenches them, like his fingers are burning to strangle someone. His teeth gnash; his eyebrows furrow and rise erratically. Bloodshot, small-pupiled eyes glower at them from the darmanitan’s sooted face. His fur is caked in grime and ash, his knuckles are spattered in dried blood. With such a frighteningly disheveled appearance, Mott isn’t surprised that it takes him a moment to recognize the man. 

“Ingram Aldrich?” He blurts, almost on reflex. 

The city founder doesn’t respond to his own name; there’s barely a flicker of recognition in his rabid eyes. In all the meetings Mott ever had with the guy, he’s never seen him like this. The man usually sported some sort of ruggedly handsome aesthetic, but right now, he looks downright deranged.

Florian arches a brown, unimpressed. “ _This_ is the guy you almost married?” Lenny sputters at the word ‘married.’

Defensively, Mott retorts, “Look, he wasn’t my favorite suitor!” 

Mott expected his words to get a rise out of Aldrich, even in some small way. Maybe even hoped. But nothing flashes across his face. No newfound anger or offense at being insulted. It’s as if he didn’t even hear him. Does he even recognize Mott? 

Before he can reintroduce himself and suggest Aldrich maybe take a seat, the man bellows, “You noble bastards, get off my land!” 

“It’s not your land, anymore,” Florian asserts, eyes narrowing. Aldrich snarls; Florian’s tail flicks with anticipation. “All your assets burned up when Zekrom attacked. This land is free real estate, now.” 

“It’s my land!” Aldrich roars, his voice cracking likely from dehydration and desperation. “It’s mine, I built it from the ground up with my own two hands, it’s mine! You think you can just buy that? You think I’d let you?!” 

The tension in the air has taken on a charge of its own, electric and stifling. There is something incredibly and irrevocably _wrong_ with Alrdich—so wrong that even Mott, who barely knows the guy, can tell that whoever he used to be is long gone. The things this man has seen in the past few days can’t be explained. Probably shouldn’t be. His eyes still glint with the ravenous light of a city engulfed in flames. 

Torquil, ever the mediator, steps forward. His arms are outstretched, pleasant and non-threatening. Still, the movement sets Aldrich on alert, like a taut and wary feral creature. 

“Ingram,” Torquil begins, “we don’t want your—” 

“Don’t lie!” Aldrich shouts, striking out with a haphazard punch. Torquil quickly yet easily evades it, and the rash blow does nothing but shatter concrete. Aldrich doesn’t seem put out by this; in fact, his eyes only smolder more strongly. “What else would three of the most prominent noble families be doing here?!” 

Torquil swallows, because he got him on that one. With nothing to say, he allows Lenny to pipe up. 

“Sir, I ain’t no noble. I’m just a humble peasant from Wheatfield Village,” Lenny assures, soft and slow. “I don’t got no interest in buying your land, I only want to find a little boy—”

With reckless abandon, Aldrich swings a flaming fist at Lenny. Before the shout of surprise and warning even escapes Mott, Lenny lunges to the side and avoids the strike. Torquil blinks like he’s still trying to figure out where Lenny went, and Florian looks grudgingly impressed by his speed. Unfortunately, Aldrich is not impressed; he only looks angrier. The fire around his fists spikes, encasing his hands in an uncontrolled blaze. 

“You bastards,” he seethes, the inferno building, “are all gonna die here!” 

Mott is the first to clash with Aldrich, hoping to quell the rising flames before they become a major threat to Lenny. But he underestimated the power of his opponent and is sent flying into a nearby pile of rubble. Torquil charges him head-on, grappling with his strength and matching the flames with his own. Which might work if he wasn’t literally trying to fight fire with fire. The extra heat only makes him sweat more for Lenny’s sake, so he leaps to his feet and rejoins the fray. 

With Torquil locked in combat with their foe, Mott can’t use long-range water attacks without risking significant injury to Torquil. His only choice, then, is to close in and engage from a short distance. Brandishing his shells, he slashes at the back of Aldrich’s legs and forces him to kneel. One leg goes down easy, but once Aldrich gets the idea, he stubbornly plants his remaining foot on the ground. Still, it gives Torquil enough of an advantage to loom over their opponent and gradually force him down. 

Aldrich won’t go down easy. He grits his teeth and spits and curses, but he refuses to buckle. No matter how many unrelenting slices and strikes Mott delivers, Aldrich remains unfazed. How is that possible? Mott knows he’s not as strong as he could be, considering he hasn’t evolved yet, but his type advantage over Aldrich plus his combination with Torquil should have proven itself victorious by now. Is he really that weak? 

No. It takes him a moment to notice, but through Aldrich’s thick, gritty fur, there’s fresh blood seeping out. His attacks are doing damage, maybe too much damage, but Aldrich is too stubborn to admit defeat. What’s motivating him to keep going? 

Could it be… could it be that he’s lashing out over the loss of his people? All the thousands of people that perished in his city—is it really so hard to believe that he might have felt some sort of parental fondness toward them? 

Distracted, Mott isn’t able to properly defend himself when Aldrich suddenly throws Torquil off himself and swings a fist his way. He’s struck in the chest, the air ripped from his lungs, and he collides with the ground and skids to a painful, bloody halt. The world spins when he tries to get up, and his hand slips through the loose material on the street. Torquil is by his side, equally disoriented. Through hazy vision, he looks up to see Florian and Lenny entrenched in battle with Aldrich. 

Florian, always underhanded and clever, slinks in the shadows behind Aldrich and strikes when the moment suits him. Whenever Aldrich whirls around and tries to grasp him, Florian darts away too quickly to lay a hand on. He’s slippery and smart, slithering low to the ground and staying out of the fray. That means Lenny is taking him head-on. 

Mott’s heart races at the sight of Lenny and Aldrich interlocked in a furious brawl, each brutal movement punctuated by the sharp sounds of combat. Lenny evades every slam of his fist, every swing of his arm, and every sway of his body; and he returns each missed attack with a direct hit of his own. But his grass and bug moves don’t do much good against a fiery behemoth like Aldrich, who smashes craters in the ground with every punch. All it does is serve to infuriate Aldrich, whose eyes burn targets into Lenny with every passing second. 

Mott wants to yell at Florian to _do something_ , to quit playing games and help Lenny, but it’s too late. Aldrich inhales, deep and full, his stomach glowing like he’s eaten a pound of hot coals. The murderous flicker in his eyes is the only warning given before he opens his mouth and unleashes a spewing discharge of flames. 

The temperature of their surroundings spikes, the air becomes too hot to breathe. It’s as if the sun pours from Aldrich’s maw, merciless and scorching. Like a giant hand, the fire curves toward Lenny as if to grab him, licking flames like fingers inching ever closer. Lenny is fast. Very fast. But even as he steps back to try and avoid what’s sure to be a fatal blow, Mott knows there’s nowhere he can escape. 

He shouts something. He’s certain of that; he’s not certain what he says. But before he knows it, he’s off the ground, propelling himself toward the fight, no moves prepared, no plan in action, just him and the fire and smoke in his eyes and Lenny—

The blaze swirls around him like a firestorm. A raging tornado of flames rushes past him, roaring in his ears and roasting him alive. Every nerve in his body is raw, like it’s been grated on by sandpaper; he smells the pungent scent of his own burning fur. Involuntarily, his arms curl in towards his chest, blocking the fire from his bandana. 

Shocked exclamations barely make their way through to him, muffled. But one shout in particular reaches him. 

“Mott!” Lenny cries. 

Everything around him is bright, blinding. The light grows, too bright to be fire, too heavenly and white—is he dead? Is this what death looks like? 

He doesn’t feel pain, anymore. Maybe he really is dying. 

But by the time the flames clear and reality returns to him, he’s still on that ruined street in Sapphire City. The last of the fire disappears in small wisps, sparking away from his body. His bandana falls from his neck and flutters to the ground. All around him, he’s met with the shocked expressions of people who are not much bigger than him, anymore. 

“Stand down,” Mott orders, looming over Aldrich in his new samurott form. The shadows he casts over the fire-type’s stricken face are prominent and dark. “I won’t ask twice.” 

Without a word or even a little dignity, Aldrich falls to the ground, his face slack and pale. Once Mott is convinced Aldrich isn’t a threat anymore, he glances back to Lenny. 

Lenny is also on the ground, staring up at Mott with a different type of shock. His eyes rush through a series of complicated, drastic emotions before settling on relief. “Mott,” he utters, before jumping up and crashing into him. 

Mott winces when Lenny hugs him, only to realize that his wounds are relatively minor. The burns hurt like hell in the moment, but it seems that they didn’t end up doing much damage, after all. Peering down shows that he even managed to keep his bandana from getting burnt to a crisp. Even if he did lose it, for Lenny, he’d do it again in a heartbeat. 

When Lenny releases him, he’s beaming up at him. Scooping up Mott’s bandana, he takes it around Mott’s upper arm, which is nearly at Lenny’s head level. Somewhat teasing and somewhat wistful, Lenny sighs, “It was nice being taller while it lasted.” 

Grinning, Mott lightly shoves him with his snout. Lenny giggles. 

“Mott, that was badass!” Torquil laughs, clapping his back. Hard. Mott actually winces for real, this time. “You just got him to back off with a scary look and a few words!” 

Florian fans some of the heat away from himself with his tail. “I’ve seen better,” he sniffs, but looks sourly envious nonetheless. Before Mott can call him out on it, Florian faces Aldrich. “As for this one…” 

Aldrich is still staring at Mott like he’s waiting for him to lance him through the heart. Thinking back to all the death and devastation the guy has seen these past few days, Mott finds himself feeling a little guilty for letting the fight go on this far. 

“Why did you attack us?” Mott asks, positioning himself in front of Lenny. “What was your motive?” 

Aldrich still looks like he’s about to pass out, and Florian scoffs, “Motive? What motive? He’s a deranged lunatic who found a few people in his way. He attacked us simply because he could.” 

With that, a semblance of fight sparks back to life inside of Aldrich. “I attacked you because I want you off my land!” 

“Because you thought we were disrespecting the people who passed here?” Mott wonders. 

Aldrich makes a face like he’s being absurd. “Who cares about that? This is my land, dammit, get off my land!” 

Riled up, he makes another aborted motion to attack, ending prematurely by tripping over his own feet. Panting with his face in the asphalt and debris, Aldrich struggles to push himself back up. The heel of his hand slips in his own drool, and he gives up on standing, resigning himself to laying in the filth of the street. 

It’s a pitiful sight. Mott should be filled with pity. He should feel sympathy, but… he just feels angry. 

“Your land? Your goddamn _money_?” Mott snarls, taking a step forward. Torquil holds a hand out to stop him, but he can’t bottle up the words that are spilling out. “That’s your motive? What about your people?” 

He thinks of Bela back in Moressley Town, and how she gave up every scrap of wealth to protect her people. The welfare of her people motivated her to stand up to the mercenaries, it empowered her so greatly that she evolved. But this man, this _monster_ …

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Mott demands, unable to contain the animosity in his voice. Torquil urges him back. 

“A lot of things, why do you think I discouraged you from marrying him?” Florian quips like it’s no big deal. Slithering in front of Aldrich, he looks down on the man and states, “Aldrich, the bidding for your land has already begun. There is nothing you can do to stop it.” 

With a piteous, pathetic wail, Aldrich covers his head with his hands. 

“But there is something you can do to regain a smidgen of control. Accept my bid,” Florian demands, his voice uncompromising and cold. “I will allow you to sign on to the lease as a lesser co-owner. You will never own this land again, but you don’t have to see it go.” 

“It’s my land!” Aldrich protests, his voice weak and snivelling. “I built it, it’s mine!” 

“The world doesn’t have a place for your sentiments,” Florian sharply snaps, icy as the tundra. “Accept my bid, or say goodbye to your precious land forever.” 

Aldrich curls in on himself, gripping his fur in his hands and weeping. “I… I accept…” 

Florian doesn’t even allow a moment to look pleased with himself, instead turning aside and rubbing his family pendant thoughtfully. Torquil watches him and frowns. 

“Darn,” he remarks, casually like someone might when they realize a shop is closed for the night. “My old man was really hoping to get this land. He’s not gonna be too happy about this.” 

Mott’s throat is dry. 

The money. 

The money? That’s really what this whole thing was about? The _money_? 

Not just for Aldrich, either. Florian and Torquil didn’t come here to help anyone. They came here for the land. His head has been full these past few days, thinking about what motivates a person to do what they do—such as the case with the teenage delinquents bothering Ada. And Bela, being motivated to protect her people. And Agnes, being motivated to get medicine for her sick child. And Ada, being motivated to find her child. 

All these people, whether their methods were right or not, had genuinely good motives. Even if the delinquents were wrong in their actions and Bela’s methods of protection were a little misguided to begin, they were motivated by honest goals. 

But when it comes to the rich people—the powerful people—how come they’re motivations are so… wrong? 

Mott puzzles over this in silence, glaring at the ground so hard that Torquil asks him if he’s feeling well. He shakes his head but doesn’t respond. He doesn’t want to talk to him right now, not while he’s confused over all of this. 

He turns to Lenny to say something he’ll never know, because right in that moment, he discovers—Lenny isn’t there. 

He turns to the left. To the right. To the left again, then he spins in a circle and ends up right back where he started. 

Where’s Lenny? 

“Lenny?” He calls, anxious and worried. 

No response. 

“Lenny? Lenny!” He races forward to jump to the top of a pile of rubble. “Lenny! Guys, where’s Lenny?!” 

Florian releases his pendant and Torquil blinks at him. Aldrich is still in a heap on the ground. There’s no Lenny with them. 

Mott jumps off the pile, hurrying… somewhere. Supposedly. His mind is racing a mile a minute; his body acts without his permission. Lenny, Lenny—where’s Lenny?!

“Find him!” He shouts, about ready to rip out his own fur. “Find him, find him _now_!” 

Florian darts down a narrow pass and Torquil cups his hands around his mouth, bellowing, “Lenny!” 

How did this happen? How did Mott lose him? How long has he been missing; does Mott even know when he vanished? Did something take him? Is he hurt? Worse? 

“Lenny!” He yells, his voice cracking. 

His call ricochets down the street, sounding hollow as it travels throughout the city. Keeping himself perfectly still, not even daring to breathe, he strains his hearing for a response. He’s met with nothing but the despairing sound of his own echo. 

But then, there’s a noise. 

It starts soft, at first. Then it grows. It’s not much louder than the howling wind or the blowing dust; in fact, it’s nearly drowned out by these small sounds. But Mott is searching for one thing and one thing only right now, and his ears have picked up on the sound of… 

...Crying? 

Mott leaps into action without a word, leaving Florian and Torquil to shout after him. He doesn’t wait for them. He races through the street, heart pounding, adrenaline rushing, breath short. He slips once, his new legs uncoordinated and unfamiliar, but presses on. 

Crying. That’s Lenny, and he’s crying. 

He runs about a block before he arrives upon an open street on his right. The road is littered with the usual wreckage and destruction, along with a few smoldering fires here and there. But none of that matters to him, not when his eyes hone in on a lone leavanny kneeling in the middle of the street. 

“Lenny,” Mott exhales, relieved and worried in a new way. He hurries to him, leaning his head down beside his sobbing friend. “What’s wrong? I was worried sick about…” 

His eyes trail to Lenny’s arms. More specifically, what’s held in those arms. 

A little audino boy, no more than ten, pale and dead. 

“I really thought,” Lenny begins, his voice a hoarse whisper, “I really thought he might still be alive.” 

Mott presses his snout against the side of Lenny’s face and closes his eyes, unsure of what to do. There’s nothing he can say that will fix this, so he doesn’t say anything at all. He just rests against Lenny and hopes that helps him in some small way. 

Florian and Torquil arrive soon after. He feels the horror in their gazes, and when he turns to look at them, Torquil is already bent over and retching on the ground. Florian doesn’t take his eyes away from the boy, even though his face is ashen and sickly pale. It’s as if he can’t look away. 

Lenny cries for a little longer. Then, Florian produces a sheet from his satchel and covers the boy with it. 

“Come on,” Mott says, soft and somber. “Let’s get him back to Ada.” 

Ada takes it surprisingly well. She cradles the bundle close, like the boy is still her newborn babe, and weeps. Her tears are bitter, pained, and plenty—but she cries like a woman who had already accepted reality and was just waiting for the death certificate. 

The teenage delinquents cry, too. Even though they’d never met the boy. They cry and hold Ada’s hand and ask her questions about her baby. She answers them all with a fond smile for the memories and a teary gaze for the future she’ll never get to have. 

Torquil bawls. He was always the most sensitive of the three childhood friends, always so attuned to others pain. He bawls and clutches his heart like the boy was his own son, his own flesh and blood. Florian rests his tail on Torquil’s shoulder, his face still pale, and murmurs condolences over and over, like a broken record. 

Lenny has already cried himself dry. He’s probably dehydrated, working in the sweltering heat all day and then sobbing so inconsolably. Instead, he hugs himself and stares down the street at nothing, like he’s waiting to wake up. 

And Mott… Mott _feels_. He can’t describe it. He won’t. But he feels, and he feels it so passionately, so bitterly, so angrily, so horribly—and he bottles it away. He closes it off, hides it, and puts on the neutral mask his father ingrained into him. 

It’s Lenny who eventually speaks up. Suggests that they leave the city. Camp at the outskirts, find another town to stay in for a while. The agreement is unanimous. But it isn’t whole-hearted. 

Mott wonders if that’s because a part of their hearts are lost forever, now. 

They’ve been trekking out of the city for the past hour. Mere minutes ago, they breached the outskirts. Another thirty minutes or so, and they should be far enough away from that place to feel like it isn’t choking them anymore. 

It’s the biggest group he’s ever travelled with, all eight of them, yet it’s never been more quiet. Even as the moon rises, the sounds of nightlife seem hesitant to emerge. Maybe it wasn’t just the city that died. Maybe everything is dead around it, too. 

Maybe, right now, they’re all dead, too. 

Florian stops, eventually. Regarding them all with a carefully stoic expression, so careful it’s almost brittle, he states, “We should camp here. This is far enough. There’s no need to over-extend ourselves.” 

Ada nods in agreement. Her posse of teenagers shuffle over to her, and the pansear offers to start a fire. With Torquil, they get a small but warm fire going, safely contained. Still, Mott watches it warily to make sure it doesn’t jump to Lenny. 

Everyone settles around the fire, silent. Ada sits, and her teens squat beside her. Mott and Lenny sit side by side, leaning on each other like they don’t have the strength to carry themselves anymore. Torquil sits beside them, his head in his hands. Florian coils himself at the opposite end of the fire, away from everyone else. 

The only sound is the crackling of wood and the snap of the flames. 

“You all can talk, you know.” 

Mott looks up and meets Ada’s eyes through the fire. She forces a wry smile and says, “I’m not fragile. A few soundwaves aren’t going to break me. You can talk—please. Please talk.” 

Her voice cracks at the end of her plea. Mott finds that he is suddenly desperate to fill the noise, to do anything to chase the silence away, but he can’t find the words. Each second of silence feels like a needle under his skin. He opens and closes his mouth, floundering like a fish out of water. 

“What do you think Zekrom’s motive is?” He blurts. 

Everyone looks at him, quiet and stunned. Each pair of eyes stares at him with the flickering fire reflecting in their gazes. The only sound is the crackling fire. 

“What on earth are you going on about,” Florian mutters, staring into the flames. 

“Everyone is motivated by something,” he continues, watching the embers of the campfire rise up and vanish. “So why do you think someone would do something like this?” 

Silence settles around the fire. 

“I don’t know,” Ada whispers, holding the lifeless bundle in her arms. “Thinking about that is almost scarier than dealing with all this death, isn’t it? That means someone wanted this to happen.” 

Senseless violence is easier to cope with than desired violence. 

“And if someone wanted something so horrible to happen,” Ada says, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, “then what stops them from wanting worse?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Florian, seeing the horrifying destruction of the city: it's free real estate 
> 
> And with that rough note, the Sapphire City arch ends. Not a very happy interlude, was it? 
> 
> So, Mott has evolved and so have Torquil and Florian. They even managed to work together! Perhaps that's the silver lining of this chapter? 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! Please leave comments and kudos if you're enjoying the story so far, I love to hear from you guys. See you next Wednesday!


	10. A Break In (The Case)

After the nightmare in Sapphire City, everyone was eager to stay somewhere else. Anywhere else. Thankfully, Ada lives in Roselake City, a coastal settlement near Sapphire City. She offered them all a place to stay in her home for as long as they wish. Everyone happily took her up on that offer—except for Florian, who had to feign disinterest for the sake of his petty ego—so as of now they’ve spent two days at Ada’s small cottage. 

The first day they got there, they helped her bury her son in the backyard. They tried to construct a makeshift gravemarker out of sticks and flowers, but Florian insisted it would rot and be useless within a few months. Pretty soon after that, an anonymous benefactor paid to have a beautiful tombstone made and delivered. 

Mott kinda expected Ada to sit around morosely and sigh often, like mourning people do in plays. But idle grieving doesn’t seem to be her cup of tea. The moment they got home, she went straight back to work at the infirmary and worked all night. It took the three teenagers dragging her back home for her to finally get some rest. The second day, she went straight to work again but came back on her own at a reasonable time, wanting to cook dinner for the teens. The third day, she came home with adoption papers. 

Mott’s not too surprised on that front. The teens haven’t been able to let her go since they met her, and vice versa. 

The cottage is small, and not really well suited for eight people, but Mott and Lenny will be heading out soon and he assumes Florian and Torquil won’t stay long, either. But until then, he and Lenny sleep in the living room, Florian and Torquil share a room, and Ada sleeps in her room with the teens. Mott’s never crashed in someone’s living room before. It’s a strange experience, but not entirely unpleasant. It does make it hard for him to fall asleep, though, which leaves his mind captive to plaguing thoughts. 

What is Zekrom’s motive? 

Is he crazy for asking such a thing? Everyone knows Zekrom is just a mindless beast. But is it really? Is anyone? 

He’s on his second straight hour of pondering when Lenny rolls over to face him and asks, “Do you wanna talk? You’ve been glaring at the ceiling for an awful long while, now.” 

Mott deliberately smoothes out his features before facing Lenny. Lenny blinks at him, waiting patiently. 

“I’m not thinking about anything,” he lies. 

“Are you thinking about Zekrom again?” Lenny asks, as if he already knows the answer. 

Mott doesn’t reply. 

“Hmm.” Lenny strikes a thoughtful pose that honestly just looks more cute than anything. Mott can’t help but grin. “Well, whenever I’m stumped on something, it always helps me to have a brainstorming session with some good friends. Why don’t we ask your buddies Florian and Torquil what they think!” 

Mott is still sputtering over the word ‘buddies’ while Lenny jumps to his feet. Quickly, Mott says, “Hold on, Len, I don’t think that’s a good—” 

“Come on, it’ll be fun!” Lenny insists, hurrying down the hall. “Last one there is a rotten egg!” 

Mott grumbles to himself, reluctantly rolling onto his feet. Dragging his feet, he trudges toward Florian and Torquil’s room. The last thing he wants is Torquil and Florian’s help. Torquil will be earnest but in the end, useless, and Florian will be infuriatingly helpful and oh-so arrogant about it. This song and dance is one he’s performed way, way too many times. 

Lenny knocks on the door before skipping in. The room is rather cramped for pokémon of Torquil and Florian’s size, and the bed even more so. It’s a miracle they can sleep like that. Torquil is sprawled out across the mattress, his limbs splayed in every direction, clutching Florian like a teddy bear. Florian looks like he fought against the suffocating embrace with every waking moment before giving up and passing out. 

Gingerly, Lenny shakes Torquil awake. Heavy and slow, Torquil’s eyes blink open. Awareness never really pools into his expression, though. Mott knows from experience that they’re dealing with Groggy Torquil, the world’s most incomprehensible and stubborn foe. 

“Torquil?” Lenny calls, patting his head gently. “Could you help us brainstorm something?” 

Torquil stares at Lenny with a half-lidded, absentminded gaze. As if Lenny’s some stranger behind a glass window, Torquil studies him curiously before turning to Mott. Then, his eyes light up with the slightest of recognition, and a crooked smile tugs on his face. 

“Hey, Mott! Buddy!” He slurs, sleep impeding his words. Slumping against the bed frame, he sighs, “It’s so good to see you…” 

Lenny frowns, confused, but Mott just shakes his head and gestures for him to give up. There’s no use in trying to get anything out of Groggy Torquil. Groggy Torquil just says whatever comes to his mind, and most of it is complete nonsense. 

“Mott—Mott, get this,” Torquil starts, clumsily tripping out of bed to stagger over. Mott hastily holds out an arm to catch him before he falls. Torquil holds his hand, smiling drunkenly up at him. “You won’t believe this, Mott—can you believe my dad named me the inheritor of the estate?” 

Mott’s eyebrows raise in shock. Torquil’s dad deemed him the next Douglass patriarch? Someday, he’ll be just like Florian: the head of his family and responsible for all of their affairs. Although Mott never had much of a shot at that title in his own family, being the second oldest, he always figured Torquil had even _less_ of a shot, regardless of being the Douglass firstborn, because—well… 

“Even though I’m just a bastard, son of a whore, yadda yadda yadda,” Torquil mumbles to himself, his eyes dropping sleepily. He goes quiet for a moment, seemingly dozing off. Mott jostles him a little. He seems to shock himself awake enough to add, “If I’m honest, I don’t think I want it.” 

How could he not want it? Besides the family crests, the rights to the family patriarch title are the most highly coveted honor. Only perfect golden children like Florian are deemed worthy enough for such prestige. 

“I’d be just like Florian,” Torquil mutters, almost sadly. He seems to be talking more to himself than to them, now. “I don’t want to be like Florian. Florian is so… so sad.” 

Sad? What does he mean, Florian is _sad_? Florian has had his family crest for years and gained the title of Callahan patriarch. With his family so closely tied to the king, he’s one of the most powerful people in the region. Why would Florian be sad? 

“So much pressure—so much expectation,” Torquil utters, his words devolving into complete nonsense, now. As carefully as he can, Mott starts leading Torquil back to bed. The best thing for Torquil right now is sleep. “How do you live like that? How do you not go crazy?” 

After trial and error and coaxing and commanding, Mott finally gets Torquil to lie back down. Pulling the blanket over his friend, he urges him to get some rest. Torquil tugs on the blankets, stealing them from Florian and pulling them all the way up to his chin. Content, he closes his eyes and smiles like he’s in paradise, sinking into the mattress. 

Mott is just about to suggest to Lenny that they leave the room when Torquil pipes up. “Mott?” 

Mott sighs. “Yeah?” 

“Do you miss how we used to be?” 

He pauses. 

Torquil doesn’t wait for an answer. “The three of us. We used to be so close, you know? Then family politics and power and expectations all got in the way… it just… we used to be best friends.” 

Best friends. 

Mott tries to not get choked up at the words. But he fails. And he fails to keep the memories of those words at bay, too. 

“I thought the Douglass family was supposed to be tough!” The eldest Eaton child sneered, shoving Torquil into a mud puddle. The youngest laughed, kicking some dirt in his face. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be good for? Fighting all the king’s wars? You’re a useless Douglass and a useless little baby!” 

Torquil, covered in mud, snot, and tears, curled in on himself as if to shield himself from the blow of their words. The flowers he had been picking were smashed under the bullies’ feet, the petals strewn about. Laughter, snide and cruel, cut through the serenity of the Callahan estate gardens like a swarm of pests. Whimpering, Torquil’s ears drooped as he lowered his head. 

This was the scene Montgomery walked into at nine years old. And with all the righteous fury his small frame could muster, he charged into the fray with a high-pitched battle cry. 

The Eaton children were twelve and ten, respectively. Needless to say, the fight didn’t exactly go in his favor. 

It wasn’t two minutes before he was pinned down, pressed into the mud, the older boy looming over him. With the ringing in his ears, he could barely hear the threats the Eaton’s spit out, nor could he hear Torquil begging for them to stop. His little heart raced faster with every ‘what-if’ that crossed his mind, pumping his veins with traitorous adrenaline and making him squirm in fear. 

What if he got really hurt? What if he died? 

Just as he was imagining all the horrifying ways a big twelve year old could probably kill him, a blur of green raced by his face. It was gone before he really saw it, replaced by the eldest Eaton’s shocked, bloodied face. An angry red lash struck across the boy’s face, shallow enough to not be severe but deep enough to leave a mark. 

With an agonized howl, the Eaton boy clutched his face and recoiled. 

Montgomery shoved him off, scrambling away from the Eatons. Torquil raced over to him, slipping and falling face first in the mud before crawling the rest of the way to hug him. Shakily, Montgomery accepted the tight squeeze, suddenly feeling like he needed the comfort more than ever. 

Standing between them and the Eatons was Florian. The snivy was short for his age but refused to look it, instead glaring down at everyone past his nose like they were beneath him. With narrowed eyes, he demanded, “Just what do you think you two are doing on my father’s property?” 

Florian’s voice was too squeaky to be threatening, nothing like the sharpness of his father’s or the deepness of Montgomery’s father’s. But he carried himself with the immature beginnings of Callahan poise, and that was enough to scare the Eaton’s into fumbling to point fingers away from themselves. 

“My father invited your family here to prove yourselves worthy of the Callahan’s loyalty, yet you dare to cause a fight?” Florian’s hands gravitated to his hips condescendingly. “I had no idea the Eatons were such barbarians. I wonder how your father might react if he knew this?” 

The Eaton children couldn’t have run away faster. 

“Get up, you two,” Florian ordered, folding his arms. “You’re sitting in the mud. It’s gross.” 

Montgomery and Torquil stared up at him. They didn’t move, they didn’t talk. But then, Torquil broke down into big, fat tears and Montgomery quickly followed suit. 

Florian stiffened. “What—what are you two crying for? Stop that this instant!” 

Torquil started blubbering about how scared he was of the Eatons and how he thought they were gonna kill Montgomery which reminded Montgomery of his fear which made him blubber about how scared he was of the Eatons, and on and on and on. Florian’s eyes widened with every passing second, like someone thrusted a screaming infant into his hands and he had no idea how to handle it, and then it somehow caught on fire. 

“Stop it! Stop crying!” He yelled, stomping a foot. “If you don’t stop, I’ll, I’ll beat you!” 

Despite his words, he knelt in the mud and hugged them, instead. 

“Stop! You’re behaving immaturely!” His words of rebuke didn’t grow any softer, but his voice wavered. “Stop, you… stop, please? I don’t—I don’t know what to do…” 

It took Montgomery a few more minutes of crying to finally dry his tears, his breath still coming short in hitches and hiccups. When he moved to pull back slightly, though, Florian wouldn’t let him go. He hid his face in Montgomery’s shoulder so neither of them could see him. But Montgomery could feel the silent, hot tears tracking down his face. 

That’s about when their fathers all showed up, scolded them and in Florian’s case, struck them for their “unbecoming, frivolous emotions.” Wearing a false mask of neutrality didn’t come easy to Montgomery, not yet. Not like it did to Florian. Sprouting a new bruise under his eye and devoid of any tears or emotion, Florian gazed out at the flower garden. Montgomery tried to follow suit, but the flowers were too blurry in his stinging eyes to focus on. 

Torquil still sniveled when his father was done reprimanding him, sitting pitifully beside him and Florian. Montgomery was too busy trying to figure out how to keep his emotions from bleeding through onto his face to talk to either of them, at the moment. So, they sat in silence. 

Not for long. Montgomery always hated silence. 

“This sucks,” he sighed, flopping backward into the mud. 

“Get up,” Florian monotoned, his eyes still glued on the field of flowers. 

“Why?” He demanded. Slapping a hand into the mud, he watched droplets of it jump up before splattering down on his hand. “The Eatons treat us like dirt, anyways.” 

“I wish they wouldn’t,” Torquil mumbled, wiping his eyes. It only served to get mud on his face. 

Florian tore his eyes away from the flower garden long enough to look at them both and sigh. 

“You’re both filthy,” he tsked, standing to swipe at the mud clinging to them. It earned him nothing but a filthy hand and they only got more smeared mud. “Clean up, or we won’t go into the flower gardens.” 

Torquil’s ears perked up. “The flower gardens? We’re allowed to go into the flower gardens today?” 

Even Montgomery sat up, at that. The flower fields at the Callahan estate were like a universe separated from reality. The flowers and hedges grew so high that they blocked out the rest of the world. In the real world, the three of them had to be the sons of the region’s most influential nobles. But in the flower gardens, they could be pirates, heroes, adventurers, warriors—anything they could imagine. 

With every passing year, Montgomery found himself desperately wishing he were in the gardens more and more. 

“We can go if you clean up,” Florian clucked, dusting himself off. 

But waiting for a bath to be drawn, then bathing, then drying, then going back outside was far too long of a wait. So, before Florian could grab him, Montgomery darted off toward the gardens. 

“Wh—hey! Montgomery, get back here!” Florian shouted, only for Torquil to laugh and follow after him. Florian muttered a few disgruntled curses under his breath before chasing them. But Montgomery caught the smile dancing on his face as they ran. 

And into the flower garden they went, leaving the rest of the world behind them. 

Torquil is fast asleep. It seems he only had energy for one excruciatingly sentimental phrase before he passed out. Mott wants to be upset. How dare he drop that emotional bombshell on him and then black out! But, right now, Mott doesn’t think he has it in him to be angry. Not at Torquil. So, he whispers a ‘goodnight’ that will go unheard and decides to move on. 

Lenny is already shaking Florian awake. Unlike Torquil, who woke completely unalert, Florian wakes up perhaps _too_ alert and nearly jumps out of bed like he’s preparing to strike. When he sees it’s just Lenny and Mott, though, he lets his guard down with a stern frown. 

“This couldn’t wait until morning?” He demands, his tail flicking with annoyance. 

“Nope! Er, well, it probably could,” Lenny admits sheepishly. “But! We were wondering if you could help us brainstorm Zekrom’s motive. You seem like an awfully smart guy.” 

As soon as Lenny utters the words ‘Zekrom’s motive,’ Florian ignores him in favor of glaring at Mott. 

“Montgomery,” he seethes, his tone testy. 

“Hi,” Mott says. 

“Stop chasing this inane dream of defeating Zekrom,” he orders, narrowing his eyes. “You cannot beat it. It’s a legendary, electric dragon—which, if you need the reminder, has an incredible advantage over your type.” 

“I know.” 

“I’m sorry your father asked something so impossible of you in order to get back into his good graces; it was foolish of him. But don’t be as foolish as him and actually try and achieve this impossible quest.” 

“You know I can’t do that.” 

“It will kill you,” he proclaims, grave and cold. Looking away and rubbing his family pendant, he says, “I won’t have that resting on my conscience. I have too many things to worry about as is.” 

Thinking back to what Torquil said, Mott steals a quick glance at the glittering jewel inside Florian’s pendant and wonders if he put it there to hide the ugliness of what it means to bear that crest as the patriarch. 

Before their conversation can escalate into an argument, the bedroom door creaks open. Turning, they see Ada poke her sleepy head in, rubbing her eyes. 

“Sorry, were we being too loud?” Lenny whispers, tapping his hands together guiltily. “Did we wake you up?” 

She shakes her head. “No, I just heard you talking about Zekrom’s motives again. It got me thinking: there’s a museum dedicated to the region’s legendaries here in town. My husband used to work there before he passed, and they had an entire exhibit dedicated to Zekrom—the biggest one in the region, in fact. I don’t know if it would be much help to you, but if any place will have your answer, it’ll be there.” 

Mott and Lenny share a look. 

Jackpot. 

“Montgomery,” Florian warns, his brows furrowed. 

Mott grins. 

“Montgomery, _no_.” 

Turning and hurrying past Ada, Mott yells, “Mott, yes!” 

“Montgomery—!” 

Lenny hurries out after him, an equally eager smile dancing on his face. They rush out of the house, practically tripping over their own feet in excitement. Even though it’s summer, nighttime in this northern coastal town is brisk and chilly. Mott can’t bring himself to care. No amount of shivering or sneezing can ruin this victory! 

Or, potential victory. The museum might be a complete bust. 

“We’re gonna figure out Zekrom’s motive!” Lenny squeals, apparently not considering the possibility of failure. That kind of oversight could be aggravating, but Mott finds the optimism brings a smile to his face. “And once we figure it out, we’ll be able to stop it!” 

They race through the dark, empty streets, each step closer pounding into their hearts with exhilaration. For the first time in this entire journey, Mott feels like he’s actually doing something concrete toward accomplishing his goal. The barest taste of progress is like a drug—Mott will pore over every book on every shelf if it means he can get more of this feeling. 

Energy surges through his veins, invigorating in the rawest form. Every inch of his body is propelled forth with unbounding fervor, enticed by the thought of answers. Answers: even in the slightest form, they’re a coveted jewel. Mott would give anything for a sliver of insight into Zekrom’s mind. And to think—tonight, he very well may have it. If Zekrom flew overhead right now and struck him with lightning, it would be weak in comparison. 

He whoops out loud, leaping into the empty town square. Lenny laughs brightly behind him, running to catch up. 

“I feel so alive, Lenny! We’re never gonna die!” 

It takes him all of ten minutes to regret everything. 

For all his passion, he never stopped to consider that the museum would probably be closed when they left the house. It was past midnight when they ran out, and every street they’ve been down has been empty. Only the moon and the street lights keep them company, the shop lights having long been turned off. So it really shouldn’t have been such a surprise to reach the museum and be met with nothing but the closed sign at the door. 

Standing in the middle of a cold, empty street, Lenny and Mott stare at the locked doors before them. Mott looks down at the ground. He kicks a pebble. 

“Dang it,” he says. 

Lenny approaches the door, trying to jostle it open. No such luck. The bolt on the inside rattles with the disruption, but firmly refuses to budge. Lenny then moves on to what is apparently his next best option, trying to break down the doors. 

He bodily slams himself into the thick door, which kinda looks like a flower trying to knock down an oak tree. It only serves to send Lenny flying back and tumbling down the stairs. He lands in a tangled heap at Mott’s feet. 

Mott looks down at him. Lenny looks back up. 

“Well, let’s try that again!” He chirps, moving to stand. 

“Do _not_ ,” Mott hurries to say, not eager to watch Lenny kill himself via door. “We’ll just have to come back tomorrow. When do they open?” 

They poke their heads around, searching for a sign listing the hours. It takes a while to find, because it ends up being hidden behind some unkempt, overgrown bramble. But when they move the foliage aside, all the hours are crossed out with an angry red X. A small sign hangs from the listed hours, stating, 

_‘Roselake’s Unovan Legendary Museum will be closed for the foreseeable future. Thank you for your patronage.’_

Lenny makes a noise of confusion. “Why would it be closed down?” 

Mott studies the sign for a while before he notices a date at the bottom corner: the date the sign went into effect. It was four months ago. 

That’s almost exactly on the dot of when Zekrom’s attacks began. 

That’s… an odd coincidence. Almost too odd. Suspicion twists inside Mott unpleasantly. 

“We need to get inside,” he states, surveying his surroundings. There has to be a way to slip in, right? He’s seen plenty of plays where the hero craftily opens a locked door from the other side; there has to be a way he can, too… 

Before he can form a plan, Lenny hurls a rock through the nearest window. 

_CRASH!_

“Lenny!” 

“You wanted to get inside!” 

With the newly opened window, Lenny slips inside and unlocks the door for Mott. A rush of cold air blows against him, colder than the air outside. Mustier, too. With a quiet cough, he carefully treads inside the dark building. 

Sconces line the walls every few feet, but none of them are lit. The candles atop them are cold and crumbling with disuse. Dust lingers in the air and cobwebs creep along the walls. Exhibits stand in solitary silence, the living history of the artifacts now locked away and dead. The chill in the air remains. 

Mott can’t help but sense that they’re not supposed to be here, and that’s not because they broke in. 

They find the Zekrom exhibit, paired with Reshiram. There’s a model of the dragons on display, and Mott knows from experience that at least one of those models is at least half the size of the real thing. Past the statues, though, is a tunnel with plaques and paintings depicting the legendary dragons. They travel down it, squinting in the darkness to try and decipher the writings. 

The tunnel mostly discusses the origins of Zekrom and Reshiram, the battles they fought centuries ago, and how they came to be entombed in a stone of their own essence. In a nutshell, some old princes from eons ago disagreed on how to best lead the kingdom, through ideals or truth, thus leading to the birth of Zekrom and Reshiram, respectively. The two dragons then engaged in a bitter, tumultuous battle that ravaged the region. Evidence of their vicious clashing can be seen all around the region: for example, the large ravine around Moressley Town is believed to be a product of their fighting. It wasn’t until the princes became horrified with what their disagreement had caused that they forged two stones capable of sealing the legends away. Upon capturing them, the princes hid the stones away in separate spots, refusing to ever divulge the location. The secret went with them to their graves, and Zekrom and Reshiram slept eternally—that is, until just recently. 

All of this is fascinating and all, but unhelpful toward their whole motive-discovery mission. However, he did glean one meaningful bit of information from the tunnel: the museum has a library built onto the back of it, where they can read up on more information about the legendary dragons. 

Thus, they head to the library. It’s just as dusty and cold as the museum, but their steps seem to echo even more in this open space. Bookshelves tower over them, reaching to a second and third story that is visible from the ground floor. 

Lenny has never been in a library before, so Mott has to lead them to the Zekrom section. There, they find a rather expansive collection, much to Lenny’s delight. Mott knows that most of these books probably won’t cover the scope of the research they’re trying to do, but he decides not to spoil Lenny’s excitement by bringing that up. 

They start simple—by taking one book each. 

The minutes go by slowly, but the hours fly by. Within a few hours, the moon will have disappeared and the sun will start to peek past the horizon. They’ll have to be long gone by then so no one realizes they broke in. But Mott can worry about that later. Right now, he needs to focus on the words in front of him. 

He scans the chapter for a few more minutes before deciding this book is a bust, too. With a sigh, he tosses it aside into the pile of rejects he’s amassed. Glancing at Lenny, he sees he’s still on the first book he started with, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. It looks like he’s only gotten through a few pages. 

Mott walks over. “Doing okay?” 

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Just having a hard time understanding a lot of these words,” Lenny says with a frown. Mott pokes his head over to take a look. “Any of that mumbo jumbo make a lick of sense to you?” 

It’s written in academic prose, very scholarly and technical. Mott didn’t start reading this kind of stuff until he was about fourteen, and his tutors were pretty strict about pushing him. This stuff isn’t exactly accessible to the masses. 

“What’s that word?” Lenny asks, pointing to the page. 

“Cumulonimbus.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“It’s a type of cloud.” 

“Oh.” Lenny points to another spot. “And this one?” 

“Fulminology.” 

“Huh?” 

“The study of lightning.” 

Lenny nods, squinting at the next sentence which is crammed full of big words. Squeezing his eyes closed, he rubs them for a moment. Yawning, he remarks, “You’re pretty smart, huh Mott?” 

He shrugs. “Uh, I guess? I’ve read a lot, at least. My father made sure my tutors constantly gave me things to do.” 

Pausing, Lenny regards him somberly for a moment. Mott tries to backtrack and figure out where the mood changed. 

“You know,” Lenny begins, closing the book, “you never told me why you were going after Zekrom.” 

Oh. 

“I had no idea it was because—well, that your own dad would make you do something like—” 

“You can give up on that book, Len, it mostly just talks about the theory on how Zekrom uses its powers,” Mott interrupts, returning to his own pile of books to start the next one. It’s hard to form words around the lump in his throat, but he does manage to put on his neutral mask. “It won’t do you any good to read it.” 

Lenny purses his lips like he wants to say something else, but in the end, he just nods. Mott is thankful. He’s not sure he has the strength right now to delve into all the complexities surrounding his situation and his father. He may never have the strength to do that. 

They quickly fall back into silence, focusing on the literature before them. Every so often, Lenny will pipe up to ask Mott the meaning of a word, but other than that, they do nothing but read. So dedicated to their task, Mott feels that a breakthrough should’ve happened by now. But so far, it’s been fruitless. 

The moon slips slowly through the sky like the night is thick molasses. 

He doesn’t know whether it’s been minutes or hours when Lenny leaps up and gasps, “Mott!” 

Expecting to be used as a living dictionary again, he keeps his eyes on his book and drones, “Hmm?” 

“Mott! Mott, look!” Lenny cries, racing over to him and slamming the book on the desk. Mott jolts up, surprised, but Lenny points to the page before he can get a word in. “Look at this!” 

Mott reads: ‘ _As Zekrom can be encaged in the stone, so can it be summoned from it. This, naturally, will return Zekrom into the world, and to be reversed, Zekrom must be returned into the stone. Just as the stone can either contain or release Zekrom, the stone can also control it.’_

“Wait,” Mott says, sitting straighter. “So if someone were to have found the stone, released Zekrom…” 

“Then they could be controlling it, too!” Lenny finishes, jumping with excitement. “Mott, this is huge!” 

This… this _is_ huge. Sure, it might not be a blatant motivation written on a great, big sign, but it’s a start. It’s a whole new avenue of thought that Mott never considered going down. If someone is controlling Zekrom, then they’re just a regular pokémon like Mott. They can be beaten. 

This quest is starting to look a lot less impossible, now. 

“We oughta tell Torquil and Florian!” Lenny suggests, eagerly bouncing on his feet. 

For some reason, when he thinks about those two, memories of the safety of the flower gardens come to mind. The first thing out of his mouth is “no.” 

Lenny looks at him quizzically. “What? Why not?” 

“Florian might be kinda a dick, but he’s right about this being a dangerous mission,” Mott says, pushing himself up from the desk. “I don’t want to see either of them get hurt because of it. It’s best to just keep them out of it.” 

“Aw, you care about them.” 

“Do not.” 

“Do too.” 

“Do not!” 

“Do too!” 

Just as Mott is about to playfully shove Lenny into a bookshelf, a sound echoes through the silent chamber. Immediately, they go still. Mott doesn’t even dare to breathe. 

What was that? Where did it come from? There’s no one else here! 

...Right? 

The sound repeats itself. A haunting moan carries through the halls, like a specter of the undead has returned from the grave. It’s followed shortly by an agonized, pitiful wail. 

All the fur on Mott’s back stands on end. 

They’re not alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like zoinks, Scoob, I think there's somebody in the museum! 
> 
> Who do you think it is? Why do you think they're there? Are Mott and Lenny in trouble?! Find out next Wednesday! As always, comments and kudos are appreciated, but never expected :) have a great day!


	11. The Curator, in the Library, with the Candlestick

Sidling against the wall, or as well as a four-legged body can sidle, Mott creeps toward the sound with Lenny close behind. The moans grow louder the deeper they traverse into the library, echoing through the dusty corridors and raking down his spine. Chills course through him. 

Shuddering, he tries to stifle his rapid breathing—to no avail. His heart is pounding too hard and his blood is rushing too fast to control. He feels like he’s far too loud, so loud it’s a wonder he hasn’t been discovered yet. Even the creaking floorboards beneath him seem to scream throughout the room. 

Lenny is too light to make much noise. But he nearly trips several times due to his skittish shuffling, and Mott has had to catch him more than once to keep him from falling and making a racket. Evidently, he’s just as nervous as Mott. Which means, when they get to the room where the noise seems to be coming from, they both pause at the door. 

Mott looks expectantly at Lenny. Hastily, Lenny shakes his head and points viciously at him. Mott gawks and shakes his head even harder. Lenny narrows his eyes. 

Wordlessly, they bicker. It’s a childish argument that mostly amounts to _‘you go first’, ‘no you’,_ and so on. Eventually, they reach a silent truce and decide to enter at the same time. But just as they’re psyching themselves up to do it, the door opens. 

All at once, three voices scream. 

Mott jumps back, his hackles raised, and throws a punch at the air. Beside him, Lenny bodily clings to his neck, attached like glue. In the doorway, a cinccino clutches her scarf-like fur and looks ready to faint. 

Mott and Lenny fall into a pile in the hallway, limbs splayed every which way. The cinccino falls on her butt and scrambles back, pointing a terror-stricken finger at them. 

“R-r-robbers!” She shrieks, dragging herself away from them. “Someone, help!” 

“We’re not robbers!” Mott cries in an equally panicked shriek. “Who the hell are you?!” 

“I’m the curator of this museum; I should be the one asking who _you_ are!” 

“We just wanted some information!” 

“So you broke in?!” 

“It seemed like a good idea at the time!” 

Lenny shouts, “Why are we still screaming?!” 

The curator seems to take his question to heart, quickly snapping her mouth shut. Mott, likewise, shuts himself up. For a while, the only sound is everyone’s heavy, terrified breathing. Minutes later, after everyone has come down from their own heart attacks, the curator fixes them with a distrustful, wary gaze. 

Then, she bolts. 

“Hey!” Mott yells, racing after her even though he doesn’t know why. “Where are you going?!” 

“I’m calling the authorities!” 

Lenny dashes alongside Mott, quickly overtaking him. “Please don’t, Miss!” 

In a mocking voice, she echoes, “ _Oh, please don’t, Miss_ —screw you! You broke into my museum!” 

She darts through shelves of books with impeccable navigation. Not knowing the terrain as well, Mott and Lenny find themselves screeching to a halt every few seconds to avoid barrelling into a bookcase. Sometimes, they have to completely turn around and backtrack. All the while, she gets farther and farther away, bounding over desks and shelves with swift fluidity. 

Mott really didn’t want to have to attack her, but he also really doesn’t want the authorities to get involved. Muttering an apology under his breath, he shoots a stream of water at her the next time she leaps into the air. It strikes her dead on, knocking her into a wall. She hits the wallpaper with a wet _splat_ and then flops to the ground. 

Mott turns sharply to intercept her. “By the allegory genre section, Lenny!” 

“The _what_ now?” 

“Allegory; it’s a literary genre of metaphorical works, and—forget it, just follow me!” 

Speeding through a dizzying set of twists and turns, Mott guides them through an endless cavern of bookcases just in time to arrive in the corner where the curator slowly picks herself up. Reaching out a hand, Mott moves to help her up. 

Not quick enough. She whips her sopping wet head up and opens her mouth to unleash an unholy screech. 

Mott is blown back by the burst of soundwaves. They’re so jarring and loud that Mott is sure his ears are bleeding and his brain is rattling. He staggers back into Lenny, crashing against a bookcase and knocking it over with a loud smashing noise. The fallen shelf catches his ankle and trips him, and he and Lenny both go tumbling down. 

Paper flies into the air from the impact, fluttering down and covering his eyes. He swats the loose leaf paper away, clearing up his vision just in time to see the curator pull herself back up and hurry away. 

“For the love of—we’re not gonna hurt you!” He nearly groans, clambering up to give chase. “Let’s just talk!” 

Tracking her isn’t too hard, not when she leaves behind massive puddles of water and strands of wet fur. Following her trail leads him back into the museum, where there’s significantly less twists and turns. Out on the open floor, there’s a direct path between her and Mott, which is great. There’s also a direct path between her and the door, which is much less great. 

Fortunately, her soaking wet fur seems to slow her down a bit. Mott is still not fast enough to catch up to her, even in her impeded state. Luckily for him, his teammate can catch up to her even without the handicap. 

In swift, long strides, Lenny sprints toward her and closes the distance between them with frightening speed. She dares one look over her shoulder, her eyes widening in horror at their proximity. In an effort to gain some space, she whirls around and blasts them with another wave of violent noise. 

Lenny is struck. His body is shot off the ground, soaring through the air and crashing into a statue. The attack hits Mott, too, but he’s braced for it this time. When it collides with him, he doesn’t go flying back. He doesn’t even stop. He charges straight through the staggering force, plowing into the cinccino and bowling her over. 

He winces when she hits the floor. So much for not hurting her. 

Behind him, Lenny pushes himself to his feet and jogs over. There’s a few marks and bruises on his body, but nothing serious. Panting heavily, he looks down at the curator worriedly and asks, “...Is she dead?” 

Immediately, she spins around. “No, I’m not dead! But I bet you two wish I were, huh? Go to Hell!” 

“Listen, lady, we just wanted to get some information on Zekrom,” he snaps, aggravated. She stills. “We weren’t gonna attack or anything.” 

She regards them suspiciously. “Zekrom?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Lenny confirms with a nod. “We wanna stop it from ruining the whole region.”

Her body still holds a taut hesitance, but her eyes flicker with the slightest hint of interest. 

“So,” she says, sizing them both up. “You broke in for information on Zekrom. Did you find what you were looking for?” 

“Somewhat,” Mott answers, meeting her gaze, “but we’d like to know more.” 

She takes his hint for what it is, sighing. “Why don’t we talk in my office?” 

He nods. 

The walk back is quiet and awkward. The curator glares over her shoulder at them every few moments, still sopping wet. With her fur so matted down, she looks like an angry mop. Nevertheless, Lenny tries to start a conversation with her by asking more about her work at the museum. She doesn’t deign him with any meaningful responses, keeping her answers short and curt. She seems more irritated by them than anything, almost like she’s counting down the seconds until she can get rid of them. 

That’s fair. 

The curator picks up some fallen books on the way back, glaring at them pointedly each time she does. She maintains the harsh stare as she reshelves each book, refusing to break eye contact. Lenny shuffles uncomfortably and Mott rolls his eyes each time. One of the books has a water stain on it, courtesy of yours truly, and Mott gets an extra long scowl for that. But other than that, the walk is rather uneventful. 

They pass through the Zekrom tunnel again on their way to her office. Lenny looks at the pictures with somber eyes as they pass by. Nudging him, Mott tilts his head to wordlessly ask what’s wrong. 

Lenny nudges him back with a shoulder as if to say, ‘don’t worry about it.’ Mott frowns, worrying more. 

They’re in her office before he can press the matter, though, so he lets it go. Mott’s surprised to see the space is warm and well-cleaned, only slightly dim due to the darkness of the outside. The office already has the sconces lit, as well as a heavy looking candlestick on the desk. The room is completely free of dust and cobwebs, almost making Mott forget that it’s connected to an unkempt building. There’s even a cot tucked into the far corner that looks like it’s been getting some use.

This is the same room they heard the spooky wailing noises coming from, Mott realizes. Pulling an annoyed expression, Mott demands, “Why were you making so many creepy noises in here?” 

She throws him a deadpan glare. “You mean crying?” 

“ _That’s_ what you were doing?” 

She scowls. “Yes, before I was so rudely interrupted.” 

“Why were you crying?” Lenny wonders, sympathy in his tone. 

“Why should I answer any of your questions?” She sniffs, jutting her nose in the air. With a pointed look from Mott, she seems to remember that she brought them here in order to do that very thing. She sighs. “Look. I was upset that I had to close down the museum, so I was crying. Happy?” 

That gets Mott rolling on his interrogation. “And why exactly was the museum closed?” 

She looks away. “Funding issues.” 

“Really? You, the museum with the largest collection of Zekrom literature, just so happened to have funding issues around the same time that Zekrom’s attacks began? Forgive me if I’m not convinced,” he retorts with a twisting frown. “It sounds pretty suspicious.” 

“Ugh, fine!” She cries, throwing her hands in the air. “Look, I wasn’t entirely lying: the museum really does rely on a lot of rich patrons to maintain funding. Around the time of Zekrom’s first attacks, a lot of researchers started coming here to try and find a way to stop it. But as soon as they seemed to be getting close to a breakthrough, an anonymous patron pulled all their funds! It was more than eighty percent of my funding! I tried to raise money to make up for it, but nothing worked. I was forced to shut down and I’ve been living here and trying to research Zekrom on my own ever since, without much luck.” 

Mott puts a hand to his chin in thought. Why would a patron suddenly pull all their funding? Even more worrying, why pull it when the museum was making progress toward defeating Zekrom? The correlation there makes it seem like the funds were pulled because of the progress. 

... _Were_ they? 

Why? 

“Did they give an explanation for pulling their funds?” Mott asks. “Had this anonymous patron sent in complaints prior?” 

“No! None of my patrons had been complaining about anything; the pull was totally out of the blue,” she laments, slumping into her office chair. “Even worse, after I lost all that funding and had to close, the rest of my patrons jumped ship because they didn’t want to contribute to a ‘dying museum’ or something. Well, screw them! Who needs them, anyway?” 

With no other explanation to go off of, Mott is forced to consider the grim possibility that the anonymous patron pulled their funds due to the progress the researchers were making on Zekrom. For whatever reason, that patron doesn’t want Zekrom stopped. Could it be because they are the one behind this whole disaster? 

“We read a source that says Zekrom can be summoned from a stone and controlled with it,” Mott continues. “Is it true?” 

“That’s what most scholars agree on, yes,” she replies, running a hand down her weary face. 

Lenny surprises him by taking the lead of the questioning. “Is it ever able to act on its own?” 

“Is it… I’m sorry?” 

“Does it have consciousness? Or does it just respond to people’s desires?” He presses. “Does it have feelings about what it’s being made to do? Does it get any kind of a say in what it does, or is it helpless to be controlled?” 

The curator fixes him with a peculiar look. “How is any of that going to help you beat it?” 

Lenny taps his hands together. “Um… I guess it wouldn’t be much of a help. I was just curious.” 

Mott regards him for a moment. Is that why Lenny was looking at those paintings of Zekrom so sadly? Does he feel bad for the thing? 

When Mott takes a moment to think about it, having an entire existence tied into others’ desires without any autonomy of your own sounds miserable. He kinda understands Lenny’s sympathy, now. 

Still, the questions must go on. “Does anyone know where the stone was all this time?” 

“Not a clue. Obviously _somebody_ found it, but that somebody wasn’t me.” 

“What does the stone look like?” 

She sighs. “I wouldn’t know. It’s outside my field of study. But… I do have a colleague who…” 

Suddenly, she jumps to her feet, throwing open a desk drawer so forcefully that the candlestick on her desk teeters dangerously close to falling off. Lenny swiftly reaches out to steady it before it catches the carpet ablaze. Snatching a piece of paper out of the desk, she furiously scribbles something down. 

“Professor Hallowood. She’ll be able to help you,” she states, handing Mott the scrap of paper. He scans over it, reading the name and address before focusing his attention back on the curator. “She’s an expert in legendary archeology. If anyone would know what an ancient dragon stone would look like, it would be her.” 

_Professor Hallowood, Stawford Town, Bridge St._

Stawford Town is an inland town about a week’s walk from here. Mott’s never been, but from what he’s heard the town focuses heavily on intellectual pursuits. Even if this professor has no clue what the stone looks like, there’s a chance they’ll be able to find someone there who does. This is a solid lead. 

“That’s about as much as I can give you on the subject,” she states, tapping her fingers against her desk thoughtfully. “The only useful information I can give you at this point is how to seal Zekrom back in the stone.” 

Mott’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “You know how to seal it?!” 

She snorts. “Of course I do, I’m not _that_ useless as a scholar. So, first of all, you’ll obviously need to find the stone.” 

Excitedly, Lenny bounces on his feet and urges, “Then?” 

“Relax, I’m getting there,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Then, you’ll have to take the stone in your hands and—” 

A golden glint flashes past his eyes, too fast to see, too fast to stop. But then there’s a sharp thud, dull cracking sound, and blood spurting into the air.

The curator, eyes wide, stumbles back. The fur on top of her head is a deep, ugly red. Weakly, she raises a hand up to the wound. Her fingers press into her skull as if it’s soft. 

She collapses, and the candlestick from her desk clatters to the ground with her, the light snuffed out. 

“Mott, the rafters!” Lenny cries, pointing to the ceiling. 

The ceiling is too high up for the light to properly illuminate it, so even when Mott squints he can barely see the figure retreating into the shadows. 

“Hey!” Mott shouts, charging up a blast of water. He shoots it into the rafters, but the shadow nimbly dodges. “Get back here!” 

Before he can strike again, the intruder opens the skylight window and slips out onto the roof, escaping into the cover of the darkness. There’s no way Mott can climb up to chase them through that window, much less actually fit through it. Lenny might be able to, but… 

“Ma’am? Ma’am, can you hear me?” Lenny calls, shaking her worriedly. She’s still as stone and unresponsive. Her head is misshapen after the bludgeoning; blood pools under her and stains her fur. Lenny shakes her harder. “Mott—Mott, she’s not responding!” 

Mott hurries over and takes her wrist in his hand. He waits, anxiously, for the tell-tale signs of life. 

Nothing. 

He drops her wrist. “It’s too late. She’s gone.” 

Lenny covers his mouth, horrified and grief-stricken. Mott puts a hand on his back, looking up at the window. 

It’s too late for the curator. But it isn’t too late for justice. 

“Lenny, let’s go catch that bastard!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter this time, but with a little extra drama! 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Check back next Wednesday for an update!


	12. Not Very Fast, but Definitely Furious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the late update! I have been very busy this past week with a bad cold as well as stress from elections, school, work, etc. I hope this chapter makes up for the wait. Thank you for your patience and understanding <3

God, running sucks. 

Mott has run into his fifth trash can in this street chase alone, and needless to say, he’s more covered in garbage and filth than he ever wanted to be. Running for speed has never been a strength of Mott’s, even more so now that he’s evolved. Unlike some, his four-legged form really isn’t built for this kind of thing. It’s even worse because he’s still adjusting to the physical changes—and going from two legs to four is a pretty big change. He keeps wanting to move his arms back and forth while he runs, but he doesn’t really have arms anymore. 

Does he? Does he have arms? Sometimes he thinks of them as arms, other times he thinks of them as legs. Again, it’s all very weird and unfamiliar. 

Another trash can to the chest cruelly reminds him that he needs to stay focused. After swiping some grime out of his face and a banana peel out of his eyes, he locks onto his target once more and continues the pursuit. 

The killer has easily put distance between themself and Mott, as embarrassing as it is to admit. With every step he takes, it seems they take twelve. They outpace him as easily as breathing, like they’re a skilled warrior and he’s a newborn baby. Infuriatingly, they’ve even thrown a few taunting gestures back. 

Huffing and puffing, Mott shouts, “You're having a good time now… but if we were in water— _oh boy I’m gonna die_ —I’d be… kicking your ass!” 

Yelling only serves to deflate his lungs. He has to take a deep gulp of air before racing off again. 

Between the two of them, Lenny is faring much better. It’s doubly embarrassing to Mott that his newly evolved form has made him even clumsier than Lenny, something he thought was impossible. After tripping on a cracked sidewalk and nearly eating the ground, Mott kinda wishes the earth would just swallow him up and spare him from this humiliation. The only thing keeping him going is the thought that Lenny just might catch the killer.

Lenny is fast. He’s taken note of Lenny’s speed several times, but seeing it in a situation like this is different. Lenny isn’t holding back, he isn’t impeded by obstacles, and he’s determined as hell. With every step he takes, he gains air as if he’s about to fly. Speed isn’t his only asset, either; he’s nimble. When the shadowy figure abruptly switches course, Lenny is right behind them. When they throw an attack Lenny’s way, he dodges with ease. Like this, it’s hard for Mott to deny that Lenny could be a threat to anyone if he wanted to be. If Lenny had even the slightest of blackness in his heart… 

There’d be no place on Earth anyone could run that he couldn’t catch them. 

The shadowy figure seems to realize the danger he poses to them, as they only direct their attacks at him. For the most part, they seem perfectly content with ignoring Mott. Mott gets the logic behind it, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t offended. 

Resolution surges through him; a desire to prove the killer wrong springing from deep inside. He’s not fast like Lenny, not on land. But he has the stamina to make up for it. If he can get into the water, he’ll have the speed, too. 

The shadowy figure races across the entrance of a long bridge, darting across at a rapid pace. If Mott can dive into the water and beat them across the bridge, he can cut off their path of escape. With Lenny behind them, they’ll be cornered. 

As soon as he reaches the water’s edge, he plunges in. Ice cold water rushes around him. It doesn’t make him freeze up, though—it refreshes him. Invigorates him. 

With a burst of energy coursing through his veins, Mott shoots through the canal like a jet. The submerged world passes by him in a blur; underwater pokémon lazily swimming by startle to an early wake up call when he nearly barrells them over. His speed increases the water pressure around him, pounding streams against his body. 

In the murky darkness of the canal, he sees land approaching. How is he doing? Did he catch up? Is he too late? Through the blurry tension of the surface, he can barely see the killer racing parallel to him on the bridge. They’re neck and neck. Refusing to give an inch, Mott pushes himself to pick up the pace. The killer does, too. 

Narrowing his eyes, he speeds up again. So do they. 

Straining his body and ignoring the burn of protest in his muscles, Mott swims at maximum speeds. They quicken, and they don’t seem to break a sweat. 

What the hell? If they’re able to go this fast without hardly any effort, why haven’t they been? Why don’t they just dash away and leave them in the dust; even Lenny wouldn’t be able to catch up!

Mott’s thoughts distract him enough to nearly collide with a large rock. Swiftly spinning out of the way, Mott narrowly avoids it but slows down in the process. The killer slows down, too. 

What? Why would they slow down? They don’t seem to be winded, or injured, or anything; it makes absolutely no sense why they would play these games and dangle themselves in front of Mott and Lenny like a shiny fishing lure—

Oh. _Oh_. 

They’re being baited. 

Why? Does the killer have some kind of trap planned for them? It seems unlikely, the killer had no way of knowing the two of them would be at the museum in order to plan and lead them into a trap. So where are they being led, then? And why? Mott can’t think of a single reason the killer would want to lead them somewhere, but it makes his stomach twist in apprehension. 

Knowing that they’re being baited makes Mott a lot less inclined to try and catch up. All his instincts scream danger. But he still wants to catch them after they murdered the curator, to get justice for her. So, despite the protests in his body and his mind, he increases his speed. 

The murderer strikes out at Lenny, as if to keep things interesting. Again, baiting them. Enticing them. Lenny takes the bait on his own terms, gracefully evading the attack and landing closer to them than he’s ever gotten. He’s so close he could reach out and cut them down. So close he could see them through the darkness. 

The killer obviously hadn’t expected this result, as they rear back in shock and their actions falter for a moment. Almost startled, they lash out again, with much less decorum than before. Their hit, although haphazard and reckless, lands directly on target. It’s a hard hit, too hard, and in the blink of an eye Lenny is thrown over the bridge. 

Bubbles rush before his eyes as he shouts, “ _Lenny_!” 

Screw catching the killer, that’s police work! He’s got a teammate to catch! 

Without a moment to lose, Mott dives down deeper into the canal as Lenny falls. He needs to build up enough speed, speed he can’t attain as things stand now. If he can’t, he won’t be able to emerge airborne, and he won’t be able to catch Lenny before the painful impact. 

Farther and farther Lenny falls. Deeper and deeper Mott swims. The water around him grows colder, denser, darker. His heart pounds, aches. Every muscle in him screams; it’s nothing compared to the frantic screaming in his mind. He has to catch Lenny, he has to. From a height like that, an impact like that could—especially with his paper thin body, an impact like that could—

Farther, farther, farther Lenny falls from the bridge. 

Deeper, deeper, deeper Mott swims until he reaches the bottom and plants his feet in the muck and slams into it and pushes himself off with resonating force—! 

He surfaces, shooting into the air just in time to snatch Lenny and plummet back down. 

A white flurry of bubbles sweep around him as they submerge, floating feebly up to the surface before popping. Mott allows himself to stop, his body aching and his lungs burning, and he stays suspended. Floating between the bottom and the surface, quiet, still, and alone. 

Well. Mostly alone. 

Lenny is in his arms. His cheeks are puffed outward with a contained breath of air, his eyes wide. Clearly, he’s more than a little disoriented. But once he gathers his bearings, he turns his head to Mott. Gratefully, he pats Mott on his arm, over his bandana. 

Mott’s heart thumps. 

Then, Lenny starts looking a little blue. Frantically, Mott jolts himself back into action, swimming hastily to the surface and kicking himself for forgetting that most people can’t breathe on land and in water. 

They reach the other side of the canal, Lenny gasping and coughing. The land is bordered by massive rocks that reach high enough that Lenny couldn’t possibly get up there on his own. Mott nudges him along, helping him to climb the sleek, slippery surface before following after him. Lenny drags himself to the nearest dry surface, panting with his head hung. 

Mott shakes himself off, flicking water everywhere. It doesn’t dry him off much. Mostly, it just makes his fur poof out. He grumbles as he smooths it back down, watching his reflection in the canal’s surface. Glancing up to the bridge confirms his suspicions: the killer is long gone. 

It takes a few minutes for Lenny to catch his breath. Between the chasing and near drowning, he’s pretty short on air. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, his voice hoarse, “that I couldn’t catch them.” 

“Don’t apologize, you did your best,” Mott assures, sitting beside him. 

A small breeze passes them by, making Lenny tremble. The water was cold even to Mott’s standards, and most water-types are pretty tolerant to that sort of thing. He can’t imagine it was at all comfortable for Lenny. Especially since grass-types are notorious for getting cold. 

Mott shuffles closer, and Lenny eagerly indulges himself in his body heat. More shudders course through him, but they eventually grow more subdued. After a while, they completely subside, although Lenny is still shivering slightly. 

“Any chance that you caught a glimpse of their face?” Mott wonders. 

Regretfully, Lenny shakes his head. “Even when I was close to them, they were too good at hiding in the shadows for me to see.” 

Mott nods. It figures that someone so skilled would be able to kill, bait, and escape with ease. It does beg the question of why, though, which Mott thinks is rather obvious: they didn’t want the two of them to discover how to defeat Zekrom. 

Piecing together his mental, makeshift theory board, Mott adds the killer to what he’s amassed so far. A rich patron pulls their funds as soon as the museum gets a breakthrough. This, clearly, is because they wanted to silence any information around beating Zekrom. This killer shows up and strikes just as the curator was going to give them that information—evidently, the rich patron hired an assassin to take her out prior, and Mott and Lenny just happened to be there in the wrong place and the wrong time. But then why did the assassin flee instead of killing them? And why did they bait them? Where were they leading them? 

Even as small answers come together, he feels more big questions pile up. It’s frustrating how complicated this whole mess has gotten. His mission, no matter how impossible, started out rather straightforward: defeat Zekrom. But the deeper he gets into this, the more twists and turns muddle his way. Unanswered questions probe at his mind, spinning around and around on repeat. 

Why didn’t the assassin kill them? Why did they bait them? Where were they leading them? 

He wishes his mission was clear again. He wishes it was just a direct and open path to taking down a mindless, bloodthirsty beast. He wishes he didn’t have to worry about players in the background, manipulating their surroundings like a chess board and drawing them away from what really matters. 

Why did they bait them? Where were they leading them? 

He wants to get back to the root of things: Zekrom. He wishes things would stop leading him away from it. 

That’s when it dawns on him. 

Lenny must’ve sensed the dread trickling through his veins, because he offers Mott a look of concern. “Are you okay? You look like you saw a ghost.” 

Where were they leading them? That’s not the real question. The real question is where were they being led away _from_. 

“The museum,” Mott utters, horror burrowing a deep pit in his gut. The museum, with the world’s largest stockpile of research on Zekrom. He leaps to his feet, heart hammering. “They were leading us away from the museum; they’re gonna destroy all the research!” 

“Huh? Who? Who’s gonna do what?” 

Mott swoops his head down, scooping Lenny up and tossing him on his back. Yelping, Lenny flails to catch a hold of his neck before he falls. Already racing back to the museum, Mott promises, “I’ll fill you in on the way, but we’ve gotta go now!” 

By the time they return to the museum, Mott is relieved to find it’s still in one piece. He almost expected to be confronted with the dramatic sight of the whole building lit ablaze. But it’s just as solemn and silent as ever, and without the broken window and the faint smell of blood in the air, Mott would’ve never guessed anything was amiss. 

As they rush to the library, Mott’s steps falter when he passes the curator’s door. A rush of guilt overwhelms him, and he has to remind himself that if someone called a hit on her, there was nothing he could’ve done to have stopped it. Him being there didn’t cause her death; if anything, it just prolonged the inevitable. But that doesn’t stop the aching remorse, and it’s only when he swears to care for her body after they get the information on Zekrom that it fades in the slightest. 

When they reach the library, Mott is surprised but overjoyed to see no one is here. Even better, none of the books on Zekrom seem to be missing. He was certain that the assassin would’ve backtracked here by now and destroyed what they wanted to. Did the two of them somehow beat them back? Or were they not out for the books, after all? 

There’s no way Mott and Lenny will be able to transport all these books out of the library at once. If the assassin does end up returning and destroying the books, Mott wants to have saved the most important ones, first. Obviously, he hasn’t read them all to be able to rank them, but he can discount ones he’s skimmed. None of them cover the scope of research he’s looking for: how to beat Zekrom. But there was one book that he remembers that has his attention… 

“Lenny, where’s that book you were reading?” He asks, pushing through piles of books in a frenzy. “That book that talked about Zekrom and the stone?” 

“I don’t remember the title, it was long and confusing, but the pictures were pretty,” Lenny responds, searching alongside him. “Um, it was… red… I think…” 

They hunt for a few minutes before Lenny triumphantly pulls it out from under a chair. Crowding around a desk, they glue their eyes to the pages and Mott feverishly flips through it. Muttering words and chapter titles aloud, Mott skims at a rapid pace before striking gold. 

After hi-fiving Lenny in victory, he reads, “‘ _As Zekrom can be encaged in the stone, so can they be summoned from it. This, naturally, will return Zekrom into the world, and to be reversed, Zekrom must be returned into the stone. Just as the stone can either contain or release Zekrom, it can also control it. As for the theories regarding each topic, they are as follows…’”_

Mott curses, skipping a few lines before landing on what he actually wants to know. “‘ _The theory of returning Zekrom to its stone is rather abstract and complex.’”_ Great. “‘ _It is imperative, first and foremost, that the individual who wishes to seal Zekrom holds Zekrom’s stone in their hands.’”_

Yes, he already knows that! Tell him something useful, please! 

“‘ _Secondly, the individual must be prepared to_ —’” 

A sudden force erupts from the wall nearest to them, blowing them back. 

Mott is thrown across the room. The explosion is tremendous and violent, quaking the ground and rattling bookcases. Books fall from their shelves and tables and chairs shatter. Splinters from the smashed wood cut through the air like knives, slicing Mott’s skin in midair. Then, with spine-snapping impact, he slams into the far wall. 

Spots dance in his vision, black and fuzzy and tingling. The world around him spins. His mind is foggy; all of his senses have fled him. He’s detached from himself, unable to connect his thoughts to his body. It takes all his focus just to move his arm enough to push himself off the ground. 

Somehow, he manages to look up. Lenny is in front of him, gritting his teeth as he slowly struggles to rise. He’s covered in scrapes and bruises and blood. When Mott glances down at himself, he discovers he’s not much better. 

A low, thunderous sound rumbles from the smashed wall. Hazily, Mott turns his head to see the exploded wall completely demolished, bricks and rubble raining down. In that gaping, open maw of debris, he’s met with a familiar, bloodcurdling face. 

_Zekrom_. 

Mott’s eyes slowly trail up the massive, hulking figure looming before him. Muscle and scales and claws define every inch of the creature, shaping it into a monster beyond comprehension. The claws flex and stretch. The powerful tail rises and falls. Sharp fangs glint in the dying moonlight. 

The tail burns blue, electricity coursing through the beast’s form. 

With a single strike of lightning from Zekrom, the building catches ablaze. 

Swinging its hand, it smashes a nearby pillar to dust. The part of the roof it was supporting comes tumbling down, raining dust and wood and shingles. With the collapse, the floor trembles. 

It’s clear that Zekrom intends to demolish the building—with or without them inside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zekrom: *appears* 
> 
> Mott: *laughs* I'm in danger 
> 
> Sorry for the cliff hanger! Or am I...? Anyways, thank you all for reading! As always, comments and kudos are appreciated but never expected. Come around next Wednesday for another update (hopefully on TIME, this time!). 
> 
> See you all next week!


	13. Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, we're actually on time this week! Although, you may not be too thankful for this chapter...

_Fire_. 

Mott has never been afraid of fire. The pulses of water that course through him, that connect him intrinsically to the element, always keep him safe in the face of rising flames. He’s grown a sense of numbness to the heat, a nonchalant arrogance. He deluded himself into thinking no amount of fire could ever truly hurt him. 

But now, as Zekrom’s inferno rages around him, Mott feels the flames of fear burn through him. For the first time in his life, he’s forced to confront the possibility of burning alive—and it reintroduces him to terror he’s long ignored. 

Every nerve in his body is alight with near hysteria, screaming at him to run, run, _run_ —but where? The hall that connects the library and museum is blocked off, wooden beams having fallen in the way. The windows aren’t big enough for him to fit through. The wall Zekrom blasted down is his only option—and that’s not much of an option at all. In the gaping maw of the wall, Zekrom looms. Its red eyes burn into him, watching, waiting. It’s waiting for him to make the first move. 

But he can’t move. His legs are rooted to the floor, his muscles are locked. The intense blaze rages all around him like a cage, trapping him, suffocating him. 

_The building is on **fire**_ , he panics, dumbed by shock, unable to think of anything but the obvious, immediate danger, _and we’re stuck inside it._

A rough, wheezing cough grates beside him. He turns. 

_**We’re** stuck inside it. _

It’s not just Mott who’s stuck in here, no. Lenny is. 

The room is so hot, unbearably hot, hotter than the smoldering wreckage of Sapphire City. It’s so hot he can’t even sweat, every fluid in his body is steamed away. It’s so hot that he can see Lenny’s body drying out, he can see the way flickering flames try to jump to his parched skin. 

The fire is all-consuming, swirling around them like a furious storm. Flames shoot up bookshelves like wicks; the smell of burning paper chokes him. Any books they wanted to preserve are long gone, now. It won’t be long before Lenny is in the same state. 

“We have to get out of here,” he rasps, the words tearing at the rawness in his throat. His eyes land on the hall that leads to the museum. If he can put out the flames there for just a second, he might be able to shove his way through the embers. Lenny can slip out through one of these windows; they can regroup. 

A stack of books beside Lenny burst into flames. The sparks nearly catch onto Lenny, and the possibility of him being swallowed whole suddenly seems much more real. “Go out the window, now!” 

Lenny has a hand over his mouth, his eyes squinting against the sting of the thick smoke. Shaking his head, he protests, “Not without you!” 

“I’ll escape!” He promises, voice cracking from dehydration. “Just go—” 

Zekrom decides it’s done waiting. A bolt of lightning strikes the ground between them, blasting his eardrums and charging the air with volatile energy. New flames spark from the struck carpet, ripping across the room and dividing them. 

“Mott!” Lenny cries, reaching a hand out just before the wall of flames rushes upward. 

“Lenny!” He shouts, hoarse and desperate as the fire conceals them from each other. His heart pounds. His breath comes short; it’s impossible to breathe with all this heat and smoke and electricity, and he stumbles to the side when one of his legs nearly gives out. Over the blaze between them, he calls, “ _Lenny_!” 

It’s too loud. The room is creaking and groaning and snapping around them, things fall, big things, things that could crush either of them in an instant. Roaring flames and the rushing of his own blood in his ears drowns out any other sound. 

But distantly, faintly, he hears an afraid, muffled response. A weak call of his name. 

“Mott!” 

More crackles of electricity shoot from Zekrom. A metallic taste soaks into his tongue, clashing unpleasantly with the smoke. His light-headedness compounds on itself. 

“Lenny, hold on!” He yells, summoning water from the deepest parts of himself. “I’m coming!” 

He ejects a stream of water at the wall of fire. What would’ve normally been a powerful propulsion is reduced to a meager sprinkling, and he coughs at the end of it as if he exhausted his supply. The fire doesn’t even falter. The heat—it’s blistering. Too blistering. His water is dried up and ineffective. 

His impulse is to plunge himself into the flames, consequences be damned. But he holds himself back. He’s already too weakened by the explosion and the lack of air to do anything reckless. He’ll be no use to Lenny dead, so he needs to find another way to reach him. But how? 

His eyes rake across the room, fighting against the abrasive smoke and heat; everywhere he looks is lit aflame. Fire, fire, fire—it’s not just consuming everything. It _is_ everything.

By pure chance alone, he spots a pocket in the room that hasn’t attracted so much flame. If he slips through there, he might be able to find a path to Lenny. Unfortunately, the pocket is right behind Zekrom. 

The dragon’s tail swishes in agitation, lightning coursing through its body. Red eyes bore into him, razor sharp fangs glint in the firelight. There’s no way he can get past that thing. But he has to. Maybe—a distraction? 

He doesn’t get the chance to think about it. With a deafening roar, Zekrom sparks with jolts of electricity and aims it straight at him. He’s not fast enough to dodge, and he suffers a direct hit. Electricity tears through him like a knife, flaying his nerves and blackening his vision. His body pulses with stinging agony, worse than he’s ever felt; it’s as if a thousand red-hot needles are plunging into his organs. His skin is sizzling and stretched taut like it might split open with one wrong move. 

His lungs bear the brunt of it. With all this smoke coming from the room and now from himself, the air isn’t enough to quell his need. He’s amazed his vision returns to him at all. 

On the smoldering carpet, he shakily raises his head to look up at Zekrom. Blood drips from his face to the floor. He doesn’t know where it’s coming from—every part of his body screams with deep anguish at the invasive nature of his injuries. He tries to rise, to stand and confront Zekrom, but he slips in his own blood. There’s no sympathy in the dragon’s eyes. Not even a trace of sick satisfaction or bloodthirsty fury. It’s just… empty. 

Despite the heat in the room, Mott is chilled to the bone. 

The dragon raises a claw as big as Mott’s body, casting lanky shadows over him. The claws glint in the light of the blaze and crackle with lightning. With a vicious roar, it strikes down at him. 

In a surprising burst of speed that Mott didn’t think was in him, he rolls aside to narrowly avoid the hit. The claw slams down on the floor, smashing the floorboards beneath the carpet. Unsheathing his jagged shell, Mott stabs into the oily black scales and slashes downward. 

Blood spurts from the wound, and an enraged bellow quakes the building. Mott doesn’t stick around to marvel his small victory; he yanks the blade from the gushing wound and dashes past the dragon, barely slipping between its legs before the next bolt of lightning strikes. It just misses him. 

The thought strikes him, suddenly, of what a good position he’s gotten himself in. He’s past Zekrom, which was the only thing standing between him and freedom. The damaged wall crumbles before him, open and waiting. He could flee now, recoup and heal his injuries, and take Zekrom on his own terms another day. 

But Lenny is still inside. So, without a moment’s hesitation, he turns and lunges through the pocket of subdued flames, reaching the other half of the library. Spinning, he faces the library and charges back inside. 

Flames dance precariously close to him on all sides, narrowing his path in a flash. Flickers of fire jump to him, singing his fur and blistering inside his open wounds. He grits his teeth and pushes onward, refusing to slow down. Adrenaline pumps through him in place of his dried up aquatic powers. He can only hope that’s all he’ll need to find Lenny and get them out of here. 

Of course, that would be too good to be true. Zekrom towers over the wall of flames that separated him and Lenny, and as if the fire means nothing, it swings a fist down and smashes the ground right in front of Mott. He screeches to a halt to avoid falling straight into its hands and rips out his scallop to stab again. But Zekrom seems to have learned its lesson from that lucky hit, zapping him with electricity before he can even try. 

The lightning coursing through him is too much to bear. He falls to a knee, clenching his jaw and remaining conscious by pure force of will alone. Lenny’s still stuck inside, there’s no time for him to fail. 

_But that’s all you ever do, isn’t it,_ an insidious voice whispers inside him, _you fail._

 _Shut up,_ Mott thinks, forcing himself to stand. 

Zekrom slashes at him with its claws, and Mott barely avoids taking the brunt of the hit. He can’t avoid it entirely, in his condition, and one of the claws grazes his shoulder. A simple knick like that is more than enough to send him toppling back down as if his entire arm had been chopped off. 

_All you ever do is fail,_ the voice reminds him, sinister and creeping, _you failed to beat Florian in your duel, you failed to beat Zekrom the first time, you failed to save Ada’s son, you failed to get justice for the curator._

“Shut up,” Mott rasps, the words slipping out under his breath. 

A loud burst of thunder rumbles in the sky. Relentless rain pounds the rooftop. Outside, a storm is raging. Inside, it’s dry, but it isn’t much different. 

Lightning surrounds Zekrom in a furious barrage. Bolts snap out in all directions, striking with reckless abandon and adding more flames to the growing inferno. One of the bolts strikes Mott dead in the chest, knocking him back and roasting the air out of his lungs. 

He hits the ground, hard. The carpet is hot to touch; it burns his skin. He fights to get up. It’s getting harder and harder to do that. 

_Failure,_ it hisses deep inside him, _Failure._

“Shut up,” he growls, salt stinging his eyes. 

_Worthless, useless, no-good waste of time._ The words keep coming, one after another. _You fail even to earn your own father’s approval._

“Shut up,” he spits, dragging himself to his feet. Zekrom looms before him, showered in sparks. 

_You fail Lenny,_ it accuses, dark and spiteful. His heart stops. _He’s good and you’re not, he’s strong and you’re weak; you **fail** him. _

“Shut up!” Mott roars, hacking wildly at Zekrom with his shell. Zekrom evades it, red eyes boring into him as he tries again, and again, and again. “Shut up, shut up, shut _up_!” 

With a powerful rush of its wings, Zekrom takes to the air and looms above him. Casting a menacing shadow over him, Zekrom convulses with a sudden surge of crackling bolts. The sound of lightning snapping in the air makes his skull rattle. Mott crumples to the floor, gritting his teeth in anguish. 

Zekrom attacks with a lethal burst of electricity, shooting it straight for Mott. This strike is different from all the others so far. Mott can feel it thrumming in his bones without even touching it, and he knows—he won’t make it back from this one. The lightning is blinding, so bright it burns into the darkest corners of the room. It burns, it surges with power and energy, and it’s going to kill him. 

He’s a water-type, fighting a legendary, electric dragon. This was bound to happen sooner or later. This was his destiny. 

_Don’t pretend this could’ve ended any other way._

The lightning burns into his eyes as it draws closer. Death by electrocution: how will it feel? 

_You were born to fail._

Mott closes his eyes, and accepts the inevitable. 

“Mott, no!” 

His eyes open against better judgement, his heart stirs. “Lenny?” He utters. 

The blast of electricity still hurtles toward him. But in a flash, the silhouette of a thin bug-type stands in the way. 

For a moment, time slows down. Mott remembers the first time he met Lenny. The first conversation they had. The dusty, cramped little room Lenny took care of him in. And he remembers something specific Lenny said to him, about Zekrom. 

“ _One blast of lightning from that guy and I’d probably go up in flames_!”

His heart lurches in his chest. 

“No, Lenny, _don’t_ —!” 

The deafening sound of lightning striking its target explodes in his ears. But he doesn’t hear it. All he hears is the crackling of a new fire, somehow louder than the rest. 

Standing before him, engulfed with flames, holding himself like it’s the only thing keeping his body from crumbling to ash, is Lenny. 

Lenny _screams._

Out of every horrible thing Mott has experienced this past month, this is the one that will haunt him forever. 

His body already aches with the lack of water churning inside him, but he forces himself to lose even more. Dousing Lenny with whatever pathetic drops he can muster, he feverishly puts out the fire. Too late. Lenny is blackened with soot, singed and smoldering, his entire body limp and weak and terrifyingly unresponsive. 

Mott races over, his legs failing him halfway. He hits the ground, the air is knocked out of his lungs, but he doesn’t stop. Like a pitiful worm, he drags himself over to Lenny’s charred figure. The stench of burning flesh nearly makes him gag. 

Zekrom gazes down at the scene with glossy, impassive eyes. It must decide that they aren’t worth his time anymore, because it turns away from them and begins tearing down the library, destroying books and diagrams and every hope of defeating it. 

Mott doesn’t care. Destroy it, destroy everything, destroy the world—he’s already lost. 

“Lenny,” Mott sobs, clawing himself to his fallen teammate. Gingerly, like he might break into pieces, Mott scoops Lenny into his arms. “Lenny, Lenny, please wake up; Lenny please—”

Lenny doesn’t stir. Mott’s not even sure he’s breathing. His body feels so thin, so small, so _weak_. How did Mott let this happen? How did he—how could he—? 

_Failure_. 

Mott drops his head onto Lenny’s motionless chest, weeping as Zekrom tears apart the library. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Sorry. 
> 
> So, our heroes have hit a roadblock, and a major one at that. Will they recover from this? Can they? What will happen next? Leave your thoughts in the comments below! 
> 
> Thanks as always for reading!


	14. Recovery

“I know this is hard to accept,” Ada says, her voice soothing yet wrought with experience as she gazes at Mott with saddened eyes, “but Lenny might not make it back from this one.” 

Mott nods. 

Ada regards him carefully. “Are you listening to me?” 

“Yes,” he responds. 

“Okay,” she relents, still studying him. “You just look very… neutral about this whole thing.” 

He should. He didn’t practice schooling his features and shoving his emotions down at his father’s behest for nothing, after all. If he was letting everything he feels play out on his face, he’d be shifting through different expressions so rapidly they’d think he was possessed. He’s feeling too much, too intensely. There’s no words for what he’s feeling—might as well keep it quiet. 

These feelings have been churning inside him since the night the museum burned down. After Lenny was attacked and Zekrom busied itself with destroying the building, Mott hauled Lenny onto his back and staggered out of the fire. Although the sun hadn’t risen yet, a crowd had gathered on a hill overlooking the museum, watching the destruction in horror. Ada was there, she was the first person he saw, and he practically thrust Lenny into her arms and begged her to fix him. She kept talking about healing _his_ wounds, though, and Mott wouldn’t hear any of it. He didn’t care if he was dripping blood everywhere, Lenny was the priority. 

That was about when Florian hit him on the back of the head to subdue him. His wounds were treated, after that. 

Bandages cover his arms and back. Turns out, the electricity really did a number on him, marking his body with burns and sores that will take weeks to heal. Too many hits like these, Ada said, and he would’ve died. 

He should’ve died. If it weren’t for Lenny…

“Are you… okay to hear his condition?” She wonders, cautious, like she’s walking on glass. “Or would you rather not?” 

His voice stays level. Monotone. “You can tell me.” 

She speaks slowly. Gently. Carefully. Like she’s not sure what word might break him. Mott takes it all in with an impassive face, although he doesn’t hear her all that well. Blood is pounding in his ears, pounding in his chest, pounding in his throat; it constricts him, chokes him, suffocates him—but he gets the gist. 

Lenny is in critical condition. He wavers between deep unconsciousness and flimsy states of consciousness, where he’s delusional and incoherent. When he’s asleep, it’s uncertain if he’ll ever wake again. When he’s awake, he’s in excruciating pain. The burns cover him head to toe, and it’s a miracle he’s even lived this long. He can’t be visited right now; it will exacerbate his condition. He needs to be left alone to rest. 

He may never recover. 

He may die at any moment. 

Ada asks Mott, again, if he’s okay. He responds with the affirmative. She tells him he’s allowed to express his emotions. He responds with nothing. 

What good would showing his emotions do? It doesn’t heal Lenny. It doesn’t take him back in time to stop Lenny from saving him. It doesn’t make him a better person, a stronger person, a person who can protect the people they love and a person who doesn’t just fail, fail, _fail_ —

Everything he’s bottling up nearly bursts out of him like a dam. He takes a deep breath and shoves it back down. There’s no time for his emotions. No place. After everything he’s put Lenny through, he doesn’t have the right to make this all about himself. 

There’s no denying it—this is his fault. Even if he was more capable, even if he wasn’t a failure, this would still be his fault. He brought Lenny on this doomed mission. Fighting Zekrom, beating Zekrom: it’s nothing more than an extended suicide. No one can defeat that thing, least of all someone like Mott. How did he get so deluded to think he had a shot? Was it desperation? Arrogance? 

Arrogance, that must be it. He’s probably the only person in the world arrogant enough to send Lenny to his death for the sake of his own pride. 

Chasing Zekrom. Regaining his family status. Attaining his father’s acceptance. Earning the family crest. These things are everything he’s ever wanted, but right now, they ring hollow. As if they’re the most unappetizing dish in a banquet, Mott feels like pushing them farther and farther away from himself. He’s begun to realize he’s felt this way for a while, now. 

So why chase Zekrom? Why put himself through this? 

Why put Lenny through this? 

Everything he’s feeling is closing in around him and rising up like bile in his throat. Any second now, it’s going to burst, and he’s going to erupt like some pent up volcano and destroy everything around him. 

He needs to get out of here, now. 

Ada shouts for him as he exits her house. The door slams shut behind him, and he walks. He doesn’t know where, just not here. He just needs to _go_. 

Unfortunately, two incredibly irritating people have a different idea. Before he gets too far, Torquil and Florian stand in his path. They plant themselves in the ground, firm. Mott glares at them with all the fire he can muster. And after last night, he knows fire. 

“Move,” he orders through clenched teeth. 

“No,” Florian responds shortly, narrowing his eyes. “You’re injured. Severely.” 

“You need to rest,” Torquil urges, an expression of worry clear on his face. 

“Why are you two even here? You placed your bids on Sapphire City; your business here is done,” he sharply states. Shoving past them, wincing slightly at the contact, he spits, “You two have duties to your families and your estates. Maybe you should just focus on that instead of inserting yourselves in everyone else’s business.” 

“Mott,” Torquil says, sounding strangely pained, “you sound an awful lot like your dad.” 

Mott goes rigid. 

A beat of silence passes them by. 

“Just go home,” he hisses, forcing each word out with taxing strain. He stalks away. “Just leave me alone.” 

Behind him, he swears he hears Florian smack Torquil. 

He walks for a few minutes before he sees where he’s headed—the street he’s on is a deadend, leading to the hill that overlooks the town. It’s high up, far away from everyone in town. Far enough away that no one would exert themselves just to come up and talk to him.

Good. 

It’s exhausting getting to the top, and it makes his injuries ache and sting in protest. He ignores it, gritting his teeth and refusing to slow down. It becomes a numb repetition: one foot in front of the other, like a soldier marching off to war. By the time he reaches the top, he’s winded and some of his bandages bled through. 

Now that he’s at the top of the hill, he realizes he has no idea why he’s here. The only thing a place like this is good for is a picnic, and Mott is in no mood to sit idly around and watch the day go by, even if that’s exactly what Ada and the others would like him to do. Sitting around while Lenny is dying—how can he? How dare he? 

There’s not much around him. Some low bushes, a few sparse trees, some medium sized rocks. They’re all dull and faded, like the life has been drained out of them. Even the grass he stands on is more yellow than green. With nothing interesting to see here, he turns and looks back at the town. 

All of Roselake City is visible from where he stands. He sees the cluster of cottages, small and quaint, where Ada’s rests. He sees the sprawling cobblestone streets, the vendor’s market, and the town square. He sees the medical ward and the police station. He sees people bustling about, busy and eager to start the day. 

He sees the remains of the museum, still smoldering. 

He stops looking. 

Still, it burns in his mind, refusing to leave him in peace. It’s like it’s been carved into his flesh, somewhere so deep and integral that it’s become a part of his person. Even when he’s not looking, he still sees it—he sees the inferno, and the ashes, and the smoke, and the blood and the electricity and the blackened body and the—

No. Stop. 

Thinking of that is only making his emotions stronger, more difficult to tuck away. So, swallowing his expression and silencing the pain in his heart, he decides to not think about it anymore. 

He won’t think about it. He won’t think about the battle with Zekrom, when he thought he was going to die. He won’t think about Lenny taking the hit for him. He won’t think about the way Lenny screamed, and how he can still hear it in his brain. 

No, he won’t. His emotions aren’t productive. It’s time to do something meaningful. If he had been stronger, would this have happened? No. So, he’s going to get stronger. Right now. 

The area he’s in is empty and perfect for training. There’s plenty of open space to use his moves however he likes. Ada told him that the dehydration from the intense fire and the strain from the battle with Zekrom exhausted his body, and he should avoid using any moves until she clears him. But he feels fine. In fact, he almost can’t feel his body at all. 

Drawing one of his sharp scallop shells, studies it in the sunlight for a moment. It’s sharp, glinting at the point. He should’ve used this more effectively in the battle with Zekrom. Even if it wouldn’t be enough to defeat it, it could’ve done enough damage to get Lenny out of there. 

_Failure._

He shakes his head, but the thought doesn’t leave. All he can do is push it down in order to focus on summoning his water abilities. 

A blade of water shoots from his shell, wavering before taking shape. The energy flickers, unstable, as Mott forces it through himself. His muscles ache and tense as if he’s squeezing every last drop of life out of them. Pushing through it, he raises his arm and strikes down to slash a nearby boulder. A straight, shallow line slices through the surface. 

The corner of his mouth twists downward in a frown. A shallow slice isn’t enough. How is he going to beat Zekrom with a shallow slice? Irritated, he grinds more energy out through his scallop. His entire arm goes numb, this time, and he swipes at the rock again. Another shallow slice, fainter this time, crosses over the last. He scowls. 

_Failure. Worthless, useless, no-good waste of time._

He turns away from the rock, sheathing his weapon. His power churns inside him, unsettled and agitated. He needs to do something with it. Even if it kills him, he needs to _do something_. 

Mustering whatever drop of water still resides within him, he shoots a jet of water at a smaller rock about thirty feet away. On a normal day, he could easily reach that distance; on a better day, he could reach double. But today, his power flickers and shuts down midway, and the stream of water staggers to a halt barely fifteen feet away. It’s not even a strong jet. All it does is pour into the dirt and make a mud puddle. 

He grits his teeth. His own weakness has always been obvious, but never before has it so blatantly slapped him in the face. Nothing he does is good enough. Not just in this training session, either—this entire journey has been a testament to his failings. After all, this quest started because he had failed. 

Is this what his life is destined to be? One failure after another? And is he really selfish enough to drag people around him down, too? 

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of chattering coming from the other side of the hill, away from the city. Turning, he sees a procession coming up the hill, numbered around thirty people. Most of the people walk, but some sit in a lavishly adorned carriage towed by servant bouffalants. A few small carts are dragged behind the magnificent one, likely containing cargo. 

Mott has been a part of enough of these to know what he’s looking at: a noble is travelling. Through the royal purple veils of the carriage, Mott sees an elderly palpitoad woman surrounded by personal attendants. They fawn and fret over her like she hung the stars in the sky. One of the servants bows deferentially and says, “We’ll be at the former museum in ten minutes, my lady.” 

Mott’s blood runs cold. 

The lady’s voice is weathered and haughty when she speaks, and her head is held high. “Very good. Have any nobles placed bids on the land, yet?” 

A painful nausea grips him. 

“Not yet, my lady.” 

“Good, good,” she crows, delight crinkling in her eyes. “When I buy that land, I’ll turn it into a Zekrom-themed horror attraction. Imagine the flocks of people lining up to pay for that! Why, it makes my heart race with joy!” 

Then the carriage passes him by, and he can’t see or hear her anymore. But somehow, her voice is still ringing in his head. 

The land. She’s bidding on the land where a devastating atrocity just occured. Images of Sapphire City and the smoldering wreckage and the blackened corpses flash through his mind. His heart twinges like it’s been crippled. 

At the start of this journey, there was nothing he wanted more than his father’s approval. Attaining his family crest was his whole world, the sole motivation in his life. His obsession with it was so consuming that he was willing to follow Zekrom across the region while blindly chasing his own death. But after listening to the lady’s plans, he can’t ignore the repulsion in his gut that orders him away from the very notion of association with people like her. 

These are the people he’s trying to get back into the good graces of? People who bid on decimated lands mere hours after the tragedy? 

Chasing Zekrom. Regaining his family status. Attaining his father’s acceptance. Earning the family crest. These things are everything he’s ever wanted, but right now, they ring hollow. 

Anxiety grips him as the reality of his situation settles in. 

His life’s goal, his deepest desire, his sole motivation: it rings hollow. The crest, the thing he’s spent every waking moment striving toward, it now means… what? He’s constructed his entire life around the crest. Every part of him has been carefully crafted to appease his father enough to gain his recognition. If the crest suddenly doesn’t matter to him, then… 

His heart beats, frantic. 

Then why is he doing this; why is he dragging Lenny out to die? 

Horror settles in a deep pit in his stomach. Panic threatens to overwhelm him. Why? Desperate, he scours his brain for an answer. None come to him, and his panic grows. Anxious and overflowing with something unstable, Mott begins to pace. 

Why, why, why? Why does he do this, if not for his crest? Why does he fight, fail, persevere, fail, suffer, _fail_ —why? 

He has no answer. No matter how hard, how deep, nor how thoroughly he searches, he finds no explanation. No explanation… no motivation. He’s floundering, untethered in the universe, wandering aimlessly to slay a dragon without a cause. Without the crest to motivate him, why does he do anything? 

Who even is he? 

Something volatile boils up inside him, threatening to burst. He only catches glimpses of each thing: anger, fear, frustration, confusion, abandonment, guilt—but they culminate into something so powerful and unbearable that every inch of Mott’s essence revolts against him. He’s going to vomit; he’s going to pass out. He can’t do this anymore, he doesn’t even know what _this_ is but he can’t do it, he can’t, he won’t—

With a sudden surge of emotion, Mott snatches his scallop and slashes blindly. In reckless abandon, he cuts straight through the trunk of a maple tree, splintering it in half. 

It’s not until the shattered wood groans that he realizes what he’s done. The trunk grows larger, toppling toward him faster than he can react. In haste, he lunges out of the way—not soon enough. The tree slams into his back leg, throwing him off course and veering him into the boulder. He crashes into it, shoulder first, shooting painful flares up his arm. 

He doesn’t cry out, because he doesn’t allow himself to. Instead, he grits his teeth and swallows it back. The tree is on the ground behind him; he just barely avoided being crushed under it. His entire body leans against the boulder, pitiful and weak, before he gingerly draws himself away. Blood drips downward from the two cuts gouged into the rock’s surface. When he inspects his arm, he confirms that it is indeed bleeding. 

The sting is like fire. But somehow, he just feels numb. 

He sits down. Every limb in his body trembles with exhaustion, both physical and emotional. The wounds from his battle with Zekrom reintroduce themselves unkindly, charging pain through his nerves. The water powers within him fall dormant, refusing to be reactivated. He must’ve overexerted himself. 

Of course. It seems he can’t even train correctly. 

Rain begins to fall. It starts in small, slow, insignificant drops. He keeps his head down and watches the dirt. An indeterminable amount of time later, the sprinkle escalates into a harsh downpour, lambasting him. 

He stares at the growing puddle beneath him. His reflection is confused and distorted. 

No motivation. 

No identity. 

There’s nothing valuable about him. Maybe, if he sits here long enough, the storm will just wash him away. 

He sits, and he waits to be washed away. 

Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen. At least, not before he’s approached by two achingly familiar presences. He doesn’t look up from the puddle to see Florian and Torquil arrive. He doesn’t need to. Even if the rain casts ripples in the surface every now and then, he can still see their reflections clear as day. 

“Mott,” Torquil utters, oddly choked. “We should go back to Ada’s house.” 

Mott is honestly surprised to see Torquil outside in a storm. Torquil has never liked water, even since they were young. He looks up at the fire-type to yell at him for risking a cold when he sees blue skies and a bright sun above them. 

It stopped raining? He didn’t even notice. But—wait. If it isn’t raining, how come the puddle beneath him is still distorted with raindrops? 

He looks back down just as something hot and wet slides down his cheek. It drops into the puddle. 

Oh. 

Silence settles between them. 

Eventually, Florian reaches a tail out to him, taking his arm and urging him up. 

“Come on,” Florian says, softly. Torquil takes his other arm. “Let’s go inside.” 

They return to Ada’s house without a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mott: Can I please just have one good thing happen to me
> 
> The Universe: no
> 
> Mott: Understandable have a nice day 
> 
> Recovery is a process, and Mott absolutely refuses to accept it. Don't be like Mott. Give yourself time to heal from whatever is going on in your life. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! Please don't hesitate to leave comments, I always respond and love to hear what you guys have to say! See you next week!


	15. What Do You Want?

Just outside of Ada’s house, the palpitoad noblewoman’s procession passes them by again. Mott catches the tail end of whatever she’s saying: “...Zekrom-themed, so creative! So lucrative! Imagine the ghost stories we can invent, like a man burning to death within these very walls!” 

Mott shudders. Thankfully, Florian and Torquil quickly pull him inside. If he had to listen to another word of that, he might’ve thrown up. 

The moment the door opens, Ada’s head shoots up from where she sits in the living room. At the sight of him, she leaps to her feet and rushes over. After checking his injuries, once, twice, and even three times, she gives him a scolding frown. The look is significantly softened by the sympathy still oozing from her. 

“How’s Lenny?” He asks. He didn’t expect his voice to be so hoarse. 

She frowns at him a moment longer before releasing a long, weary sigh. Looking to the bedroom Lenny is shut inside, she says, “Better than he was. Still not great.” 

Better is a start. At this point, he’ll take anything. 

“He woke up a little bit ago,” she reports. His heart skips a beat. “He kept asking for you.” 

His heart cracks. Lenny asked for him while he was gone? 

“But he’s asleep, finally,” she finishes, exhaling tiredly, “so you should get some rest, too.” 

He barely gets a chance to respond before Florian and Torquil take him by the arms again, leading him away. 

“Come on, Mott,” Torquil says, gentle, “we can rest on the back porch for a little.” Mott would like to protest being treated like a child, but he’s way too exhausted to put up a fight. So, he lets them lead him to the back porch and settle him at the stairway. 

Florian leaves almost as soon as Mott sits down. He doesn’t think much of it. He doesn’t think of much other than Lenny. Gazing out at the small, empty backyard, he sits silently as thousands of questions race through his mind. How is Lenny? She said he was doing better, but how much of an improvement is that? Or was she just lying to appease him? Will Lenny ever truly wake up, coherent and responsive? If he does, what will he think of Mott? Will he be elated that they’re both alive? Or will he hate Mott for letting this happen to him? 

The onslaught of self-interrogation spins his mind so fast it’s almost dizzying. He doesn’t even notice Florian return until he thrusts a cup of steaming tea in front of Mott’s face. 

“It’s infused with oran berries,” Florian states, forcing it into his hands. “Drink it. It will help your wounds.” 

Mott nods and murmurs a quiet “thanks” before sipping. The tanginess of the berry blends with green tea and honey to create a perfectly balanced flavor. Warmth spreads throughout his body and melts into his bones, easing the aches and pains he’s suffered since yesterday. It’s the best he’s felt since walking into that damned museum. 

“It’s good,” he croaks, taking another sip. “Thanks.” 

“I didn’t make it,” Florian scoffs, as if offended by the mere insinuation that he would perform any menial task. “Ada’s new children made it. I didn’t think it would take three teenagers to make a single pot of tea, but I digress.” 

“They have a talent,” Mott quips, half joking and half serious. 

They sit in silence. For a moment, gazing out at the empty backyard, Mott can almost imagine that he’s overlooking the flower fields they spent their childhoods in. He wonders, inwardly, if Torquil and Florian are envisioning the same thing. It would be nice, escaping to those flower fields all over again. 

It would be nice. 

But he doesn’t have the flower fields. All he has is Torquil and Florian beside him, each carrying a little part of the garden inside them. It’s enough. 

Naturally, Florian’s gracious silence doesn’t last long. Because the man is incapable of not talking, apparently. 

“You shouldn’t have gone up to that hill to wear yourself out,” he scolds, his voice low. His gaze is locked on the ground, his eyebrows furrowed. Anger plays itself in his features—too obviously. Mott knows Florian well enough to know that it’s a mask hiding his true feelings. When he looks deeper, he sees them: pain, fear, struggle. Because Mott is hurting and he doesn’t know what to do. “You already almost died in your stupid, reckless, _useless_ battle with Zekrom; were you trying to exert yourself to death?” 

Knowing Florian is just concerned doesn’t stop the vitriol boiling up inside him. He’s tired. He’s hurt. He’s confused. The last thing he needs is the Callahan golden child to lecture him about the shit he already knows. 

“Piss off,” he mutters, taking another drink. 

Florian doesn’t relent. “Despite your insistence on acting it, we’re not children anymore. I’m not going to be there to save you every time you fail.” 

Mott flinches. 

_Failure_. 

Torquil swoops in to try and defuse the situation. “Hey, let’s all just take a moment to breathe, okay? It’s been a long couple of days and we’re all pretty high strung. Why don’t we just relax outside and enjoy—” 

“Oh, save it, Torquil,” Florian bites out, and Torquil shrinks back. Mott shoots a glare at him. “You’ve always been too relaxed and passive for your own good; Mott’s always had a hero complex. When are the both of you going to grow up and join the real world? When are you going to stop wandering aimlessly and accept your responsibility in your families?” 

“Accept responsibility in my family?” Mott echoes, his tone sharp. “In case you forgot, I was kicked out of my family after a duel with a certain someone.” 

Florian looks away. “That’s not my fault. I have a duty to uphold in my family—the moment I show any weakness, every other noble family will pounce. I can’t fail, not even once. Not even for you.” 

“How about you go back to your precious estate, then?” Mott snaps, setting his half-finished tea on a stair. “Take care of your affairs and leave me the hell alone.” 

“I think I will. I’ve spent far too long wasting time with the two of you that I nearly forgot my duty. Thank you for reminding me, Montgomery,” Florian spits, his voice laced with sarcasm and barbs. Rising up, he turns sharply toward the house and slithers inside. “I wonder how you’ll fare without me? It seems you always get your sorry ass kicked as soon as I leave.” 

Mott scowls, making a ‘tsk’ sound. 

For a moment, Florian pauses. Then, he snaps, “And for heaven’s sake, drink your damn tea. How else will you get better?” 

Grumbling under his breath, Mott grudgingly lifts the tea and takes another sip. Holding his nose in the air, Florian marches inside and slams the door. 

Silence falls over him and Torquil. 

“Sorry for dragging you into that,” Mott apologizes with a sigh. 

“It’s fine. You and I both know Florian doesn’t mean half of what he ever says, anyway. The man’s a mystery,” Torquil jokes half-heartedly. “Especially when he feels cornered. He just doesn’t know what to do, so he lashes out. He’s really just worried about you, you know. And he feels really guilty about getting you kicked out of your family.” 

Mott nods. “I know. Doesn’t mean he isn’t an ass.” 

“That’s true.” 

They share a laugh, and immediately, the mood lightens. It doesn’t become a good mood, necessarily, but it doesn’t weigh so heavily in his chest. 

By the time he finishes the tea, the sting in his injuries subsides for the most part. Still, under instructions from Ada, Torquil helps him remove his old bandages and put some clean ones on. Uncovering the wounds makes Mott grimace at the state of himself. Was he really running around with injuries like this? No wonder Florian was pissed at him. 

Eyes trained on Mott’s bandages, Torquil asks, “So. What are you gonna do, now?” 

Mott hates the way that question makes him feel. What is he going to do? What does he want to do? 

What does he want? 

“I’m pretty sure Florian would suggest petitioning your father and asking him to accept you back into the family,” Torquil states. Mott’s heart clenches at the idea. The thought of reuniting with his father when he doesn’t even know who he is or what he wants… it’s unsettling. “And Florian’s the smartest guy I know, so that’s probably the best thing to do. But honestly, if I were in your shoes, that’s not what I would do at all.” 

Mott pokes his head up, curious. “What would you do, then?” 

Torquil shrugs, a dreamy smile on his face. “I’d do whatever I wanted.” 

Mott tilts his head in confusion. Torquil notices this, so he continues. 

“What I mean is I would do whatever makes me happiest. I’ve never liked being involved in these aristocratic social spheres. There’s too much scheming and backstabbing and sabotage.” Pulling his scarf out of his satchel, he gestures to the Douglass family crest. “I wear this old thing around because it makes my dad happy. But when I’m away from home, I hide it. I blend in with the everyday people.” 

“And that makes you happy?” Mott asks, curious. Torquil nods. 

“They treat me just like everyone else,” he beams, wistful and giddy. “They bump into me and cuss me out and sing songs with me and swear and drink and laugh. I’ve gotten into a lot of cool things because of them—did you know that commoners write and produce their own plays, too?” 

Mott’s eyebrows raise in interest and surprise. “They do?” 

“They do! And they’re hilarious, and gripping, and heart-wrenching, and so, so _real_ ,” he gushes, his eyes shining. “But it’s their art that really inspires me. I’ve started picking up painting, recently—wanna see?” 

Mott nods, and Torquil eagerly digs into his satchel to pull out some small, hand-sized canvases carefully wrapped for travel. Unwrapping them, he lays them out on the porch to show them off individually. 

“This one is a painting of a boat I saw in Cherryroad Town,” he proclaims, pointing at the one nearest to Mott. Mott is thankful that he said what it was, because he would’ve never guessed it was a ship. “This is a pretty flower I saw in Ada’s front yard. This is a picture of the sunset.” 

Mott peruses over all of them, nodding and ‘ah’-ing as expected. They’re not very good paintings. But Torquil pours over them with such excitement and fervor that Mott can’t help but share in his happiness. 

“They’re terrible,” Torquil states, beaming and proud. Before Mott can hastily lie and assure him that they’re wonderful, Torquil adds, “They’re terrible, but they’re mine. And they make me happy. If this is all I ever do for the rest of my life, I’ll die content.” 

Mott always thought of Torquil as the lesser of the three friends. But looking at him now, joyfully surrounded by his piles of awful paintings, Mott is starting to realize he had it all wrong. Out of the three of them, who is the happiest?

It’s late at night, and Ada’s living room is warmed by the crackling fireplace. Contrary to Florian’s temper tantrum earlier, he didn’t end up leaving, and now Mott and Torquil have to drink about a million cups of tea each just to finish off all the kettles of tea he made for them in his shitty attempt at apologizing. He’s on his third cup and he’s had to take, like, ten bathroom breaks. It’s starting to get ridiculous. 

“Drink them all before you go to sleep,” Florian orders, refusing to acknowledge that he’s apologizing. His tail swishing in poorly hidden embarrassment, probably over the circus he’s created. Meanwhile, Torquil downs his fourth cup with a wide grin on his face. “They’ll heal you faster.” 

A blatant excuse. “Then why does Torquil have to drink them? He’s not injured.” 

Florian flushes. “Because I said so! Now shut up and drink!” 

Torquil chuckles. “I’m drinking, I’m drinking…” 

Mott grins.

As the night darkens, the three of them settle into the living room. With Lenny recovering in the room Florian and Torquil were staying in, there’s no other place for them to sleep. For the first time in a long, long time, Mott is having a sleepover with his childhood friends. 

“It’s not a sleepover,” Florian scoffs as he settles down. “We’re adults.” 

“Yeah. Come on, Mott,” Torquil agrees, still drinking tea. “It’s obviously a slumber party.” 

“It’s not that either!” 

Mott finds himself smiling and laughing again, something he hasn’t done in days. It feels good. It releases something inside him that he didn’t know he was bottling up. But it also makes him wonder—what would make him happiest? 

Torquil has found what makes him happy, and he pursues it. As a result, he enjoys his life more. Florian doesn’t chase what he wants; he allows the expectations of his family and other nobles to dictate what he does. And until recently, Mott did the same. He can’t deny that his life until then was pretty miserable. 

So, what would make him happy? 

He thinks back to his happiest moments. Naturally, fond memories of Florian and Torquil in the flower gardens come up, but they’re hazy and obscured and fragmented over the years. Also, with everything that’s happened between them, all the family politics and betrayals and power plays, they aren’t the kids they used to be. The chances of them returning to that are slim. Non-existent, really. 

Other memories come up besides those with Florian and Torquil. The inn where he met Hilda, where Lenny made their adventurer bandanas. Moressley Town, where they met Bela and helped the town and celebrated with nothing and everything all at once. Exploring the museum, before it’s destruction, and discovering new approaches to Zekrom. 

A cramped, dusty cottage built on dead land. A persistent bug that kept tying him to the roof. 

It occurs to him, suddenly, that there is one common link between all these happy moments: Lenny. Lenny was there for all of them, integral, in fact. Every smile, laugh, and burst of joy can be traced back to him. 

Mott doesn’t know what motivates him, anymore. He doesn’t know who he is. But he knows Lenny makes him happy. Even if he feels directionless and confused, he wants to stick with Lenny. From now on, wherever Lenny goes, he’ll follow. 

Soft footsteps patter down the hall. He expects Ada to come out and scold them for being up so late, or even one of the teens to slink out and cause trouble. What he doesn’t expect, when all three of them turn their heads to the hall, is to see a heavily bandaged leavanny shuffle out. 

Mott’s heart stops. 

Lenny is covered head to toe in slightly bloodied bandages. The black soot has left his body, leaving behind angry red patches of peeling skin. None of this seems to bother him, though, as he tip-toes out into the room. 

“I smelled some oran berry green tea,” Lenny explains, hobbling in. “I was gonna come ask if I could have a cup—” He stumbles straight into the table, knocking the kettle onto the floor with a loud _CRASH!_

Torquil and Florian jump. Mott just stares, frozen, as if he’s stuck in a dream. Lenny frowns down at the spilt tea. 

Lenny scratches the back of his head, made bashful by his own clumsiness. “Oh, um. Oops?” 

Mott wastes no time leaping to his feet and tackling Lenny in a crushing hug, tears and snot at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Option A: Apologize to Mott and Torquil for being a dick 
> 
> Option B: Tea
> 
> Florian: *sweats* 
> 
> Lenny is okay!! It's a holiday season miracle :') As always, thank you very much for reading. I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy this holiday season. Please take care of yourselves, the world is crazy right now. 
> 
> Love to all <3


	16. Uncle Theobald's Newest Overseer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for the incredibly kind words and support on the latest chapter! You all are the sweetest people ever :') Also, PLEASE check out this art by [drawingdeamon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drawingdeamon/pseuds/drawingdeamon) ! It's a florist au,, and it is,,,, so wholesome 
> 
> https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/329469868678184962/783600892779036673/image0.png
> 
> Thank you!!!
> 
> Also, apologies for the late update again. Exams are coming up and life has been hectic, but don't worry! This story will keep chugging along :) 
> 
> Anyways, please enjoy!

Mott is very worried.

“Mott, don’t worry,” Lenny says. 

Mott is still worried.

It’s been a week since Lenny woke up, and the bandages have come off bit by bit each day. The burns are mostly healed with the worst of them still lingering along his paper-thin arms—those will likely scar forever, Ada said. She said they shouldn’t stay red forever, though, but a faded version of Lenny’s vibrant green. That made Mott release something small inside himself that he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. The thought of Lenny marred with painful, hideous red burns for the rest of his life made Mott’s stomach twist with guilt. 

Lenny’s recovery is nothing short of miraculous. Not only did he somehow manage to survive, he’s made leaps and bounds towards getting himself healed up again. He’s even caught up with Mott in terms of progress. Ada sweetly yet scathingly reminded him that Mott’s slow healing is due to his own stubborn refusal to rest, which is ridiculous. Well, no, she’s right. But in his defense… 

...He has no defense. 

The point is, they’ve both reached a point where Ada has deemed them healthy enough to travel again. With the news that they were in steady, decent condition, Florian took his leave, citing important family matters he had to attend to. Torquil left a day later, stuffing his family crest in his bag and out of sight, off to mingle with the common people. After that, Lenny started getting antsy, eager to hit the road and travel again. Mott has managed to delay Lenny’s impulse for three days, but Lenny is nothing if not persistent. 

And stubborn. So, so stubborn. 

“Ada says I’m fine. As long as I wear the bandages for a few more days, avoid strenuous activity, and take regular breaks, I’ll be good as new!” Lenny insists, packing their bags. “So, come on; let’s stop lazing around and get back on the road.” 

“We really should just wait until your wounds are completely healed,” Mott protests, gingerly trying to nudge Lenny away from the bags and back to bed. Lenny waves him away and continues packing. “We have time.” 

“The more time we waste, the more people Zekrom can hurt. There are other towns that need our help.” 

Mott shuffles anxiously. “I know, but…” 

“Mott. I’m okay. Really, I am,” Lenny assures, squishing Mott’s face between his hands. “I’m not gonna blow away in the wind, y’hear?” 

With his cheeks squished together, his voice comes out muffled as he says, “But ’m shtill worried ‘bout yew.” 

Lenny releases his face to bop him on the nose and return to packing. “Who would’ve thought a big, strong guy like you would be such a worrywart?” 

Mott frowns, eyebrows furrowed. He is worrying a perfectly acceptable amount for someone whose partner just got roasted alive, thank you very much. 

“Besides, you’re injured too. Why aren’t you fussing over your own wounds so much?” 

“My injuries aren’t half as bad as yours,” Mott denies. Lenny looks up from their bags to give Mott a disbelieving look and a slow, judgemental once over. 

“...Right.” 

“I wasn’t the one unconscious for a whole day, Lenny!” 

“Okay, okay, no need to shout.” 

Their little spat doesn’t go much further than that, because Ada pokes her head in the door. She does a quick appraisal of their bandages and injuries, giving them both a relieved look when no opened wounds or complications come up. 

“Seems like you two have recovered a lot in these past days. Mott, you should be better by tonight. Feel free to take off the bandages by then.” Mott nods. “Lenny, you still have a few days where I would caution you against taking off the bandages. But once the redness of the remaining burns fades, you should be fine to remove them.” 

“Thank you for everything, Ada,” Lenny says, clapping his hands together in delight. “You’ve really been a dear. I hope we didn’t overstay our welcome.” 

“Not at all. You two are wonderful to have around, and the teens seem to like you quite a bit.” 

Lenny and Ada engage in a few minutes of energetic chatter and flattery before she bids them farewell and heads off to work. Turning back to their bags, Lenny hums to himself as he finishes stuffing the last of their things inside. Mott keeps a careful eye on his bandaged arms and upper torso all the while. 

Once their bags are packed, they head out the door with the teens clinging to their ankles and begging them to stay one more day. Mott gives a pointed look to Lenny— _see, even they want us to stay a little longer!_ Lenny rolls his eyes and playfully bumps his shoulder against Mott’s. In Lenny-speak, that’s a firm ‘no.’ Mott sighs, and after patting the teens heads and promising to visit sometime, they’re released. 

Part of Mott can’t believe he’s still doing this, chasing after Zekrom. After what happened, the sensible part of him wants to turn and flee. And yet… 

For some reason, he can’t bring himself to do it. 

Every logical reasoning points toward abandoning this reckless mission. Without the crest to motivate him, he should have no problem quitting this. But for whatever reason, everytime he thinks about changing his course of action, something deep inside him compels him to stick with it. It’s all very confusing. It makes no sense. 

So for now, bouncing off his talk with Torquil, he’s decided to ignore his lack of motivation and strive for something else: doing what makes him happy. And that’s staying by Lenny’s side. So, where Lenny leads, he’ll follow. 

That doesn’t mean there aren’t some ground rules, though. “Lenny.” 

Lenny looks up at him, blinking. 

“I think it’s stupid that we’re not waiting a few more days for you to heal.” Lenny opens his mouth to argue, but Mott beats him to it. “But! But, I’ll allow it—on one condition.” 

Lenny arches a brow. 

“You’ve gotta ride on my back until your burns are healed,” he states, sitting down so Lenny can mount. “There’s no way you’re walking all that distance with injuries like this.”

“Deal!” Lenny hops on, maybe a little too eagerly. Has he been waiting to do this? Pointing to the horizon like an intrepid explorer, Lenny declares, “Now, mush!” 

“You know what, I think I’ll sit here for a few minutes. Or hours.” 

“Oh, then I’ll just get off.” 

“No, no, I’m going!” Mott hastily snaps, standing. Lenny snickers and wraps his arms around his neck. Little shit. “So. Where are we going?” 

A pair of hands squish his face and pull it up. Mott blinks up at a perplexed and slightly worried looking Lenny. 

“You’re letting _me_ choose where we go? Are you sick?” Lenny asks, placing a hand over his forehead to check his temperature. He presses his other hand to his own face to compare. “You feel a little warm to me…” 

Mott scoffs, shaking himself free. “I’m not sick. I just thought I’d let you take the lead for a little bit.” 

Lenny gives him a skeptical look. Mott is almost offended. He can give up control now and then, thank you very much! He’s not a control freak! 

Not all the time, at least. 

“You’re the temporary leader,” he pronounces, and Lenny’s eyes widen like saucers. Suddenly feeling like he’s made a mistake, he adds, “It’s a privilege. Don’t abuse or squander it.” 

Lenny strikes a thoughtful pose. “Well, as the new team leader—” 

“ _Temporary_ team leader.” 

“—I vote we sing a song as we travel.” 

“No.” 

“As the new team leader, I have to reprimand your insubversion.” 

“Are you trying to say insubordination?” 

“As the new team leader—” 

“Say that again and I’m revoking your leadership privileges.” 

A half an hour of this passes before they exit the city gates, overlooking the coastline stretching before them. The shores around Roselake City are rocky and jagged, far too dangerous to travel without proper care and experience. Considering the conditions they’re in now, avoiding the coast would probably be the best option. When Mott suggests heading inland, Lenny nods in agreement. 

“That’s fine, I was looking to head that way anyhow.” 

Mott looks up at him, surprised. “You already know where you want to go?” 

“Yup! Sitting in bed recovering for days didn’t give me much to do but read the newspaper, and I read all about a town southeast of here that’s being bled dry by the noble lord that rules over it. I was hoping we could help some folks out down there.” 

Mott thinks back to the note the curator left him before she passed: the address of the professor who might have all the answers regarding Zekrom and the stone. He rummages through his bad and pulls it out, reading over it. 

_Professor Hallowood, Stawford Town, Bridge St._

“Is this place on the way to Stawford Town?” he asks, pocketing the slip. 

Lenny nods. “Yup, it’s right between us and Stawford. It’s called New Crestmount City, ever heard of it?” 

Mott tenses. 

“Um.” He pauses, uncomfortable. “Yeah.” 

Lenny leans against his head, frowning down at him. “You sound hesitant.” 

“Yeah, uh. New Crestmount City… my uncle is the lord over that place.” 

Lenny stares down at him. Mott stares back. 

“Nuh-uh.” 

“Uh,” Mott says, glancing back and forth. “Yuh-huh?” 

“Your uncle is a lord? Oh, wait, you come from a noble family.” Then, Lenny laughs. “To be honest, I sorta forgot you was rich.” 

Mott doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s pretty sure his past self would’ve been incredibly insulted. But current Mott just feels relieved. Since when did he stop wanting people to view him as a noble…? 

It doesn’t matter right now, anyways, so he pushes the thought aside. Lenny is currently interrogating him about his feelings, saying things like, “I just want to be one-hundred percent sure that you’re okay with going to your uncle’s town, I know family reunions can be awkward, like everytime I see my Great Aunt Mildred she’s always yelling at me for the one time I broke her window when I was like, seven and it’s really super awkward so—” and Mott has to keep assuring him that he’s fine going to New Crestmount. It takes about ten minutes of repetitive back-and-forth, but he eventually convinces Lenny that it really, truly is not a big deal. 

Honestly, it isn’t. Most of his father’s siblings keep each other at a cautious, resentful distance, so Mott doesn’t see aunts and uncles too often. He can’t remember the last time he saw his uncle, so there’s no bad blood for him to even remember. Any potential animosity that could have even built up between them would’ve come up when he was barely a toddler. As petty as his family is, he’s pretty sure they aren’t ridiculous enough to start beef with a kid who’s barely toilet trained. 

The only reason it might be awkward is due to Mott’s new status in the family. Gossip spreads fast in noble circles, and he has no doubt that his uncle has heard all about Mott’s banishment from the Alcott family. And when aristocrats have dirt on you, they latch onto it like hungry monsters. Any meeting between him and his uncle will probably end in Mott being laughed out of the estate. 

So, talking directly to his uncle is not going to be easy. But in order to get him to lessen the burdens on his people, Mott is limited on options. 

Lenny hugs his neck and asks, “What’s your uncle like, Mott?” 

Mott shrugs. “Like most older nobles: stuffy, pretentious, kinda a stick in the mud. I don’t know much about him other than he’s my father’s younger brother and there was some huge family drama between them when he inherited New Crestmount from my grandpa instead of my father. They don’t talk much unless it’s to send each other backhanded holiday cards.” 

“Do you think you could convince him to go easy on the people?” 

“Probably not. But I can try.” 

Lenny nuzzles the top of his head. “All I ask is that you do your best. We’ll figure the rest out if it doesn’t work!” 

Mott nods, trying to ignore the insidious voice in his head. 

_Failure_. 

“Hey, if anyone can do it, we can—together!” Lenny proclaims, pumping a fist vehemently in the air. 

Mott’s heart jumps in his throat. “Lenny don’t _exacerbateyourwounds_ —!” 

By the time they arrive in New Crestmount, Mott can practically smell the corruption a mile away. Unlike Moressley Town, where everyone was suffering under the hands of cruel outsiders, this is clearly an internal issue. The homeless sag against walls gilded in gold, the poor gnaw on moldy food outside a flourishing marketplace, and the poor beg for change on illustrious marble stairs. New Crestmount City is clearly a place where the rich get richer and everyone else is tossed into the slums. Clearly, this town has fallen victim to his uncle’s greed. And if he had any doubts, they’d be quickly dashed away by the sheer amount of tax collectors buzzing through the streets. 

Wherever there’s a civilian, there’s a snooty tax collector tailing them. Nasally voices pierce the air with thousands of calls for due payments. Frustration and irritation flicker through the people’s eyes as they’re hounded, but it dies out as soon as it ignites. Resigned and empty, the people empty their pockets. One person tries to resist, shouting vitriol and spite at the tax collectors. The only result is that one collector grabs them while the other swipes their dues. 

“In the name of the Alcotts, you all will pay your dues!” One of the collectors announces haughtily, their nose in the air. “Lord Theobald Alcott decrees it!” 

Mott’s stomach twists at the sight of his own name being used for… _this_. His impulse is to step forward and call it off—the child of a family patriarch can sometimes outrank their aunts and uncles, after all—but rationale stops him. Technically, he has no claim to that power anymore, not after losing rights to the family name. Trying to use that power would prove both fruitless and embarrassing. 

The tax collectors seem satisfied with whatever they’ve drained from the people around here, so they stuff their pockets and march off to bother some other part of the city. The tense air seems to travel with them, but it’s not replaced with anything better. Rather, a deep, profound burden of desolation and helplessness weighs over the street. Even though they’ve been stripped of everything they own, the people seem to sag like they’re carrying something heavy. Mott suddenly feels like he should have tried harder to do something while the collectors were still there, but what could he have done? And what can he do now? 

He’s still at a loss of how to proceed when Lenny hops off his back. Mott’s heart nearly jumps out of his throat and he sputters some nonsense about Lenny overworking himself, but Lenny doesn’t pay him any heed. Instead, he walks toward the townsperson who put up a fight. The townsperson is sitting in the dirt, weary and defeated. 

“Hi, I’m Lenny,” he greets, bending down despite the immense pain it must cause him. Holding out a piece of bread from their travel pack, he says, “You look like you could use something to eat.” 

The townsperson regards him skeptically for a moment, like the piece of bread might suddenly grow teeth and attack. But after a few moments of deliberation, they accept the offering with a quiet ‘thanks’ and nibble on it. 

While Lenny is kneeling on the ground, Mott notices a small drop of blood coming through his bandages. Dread trickles through him and his breath hitches. Hastily, before Lenny can push himself any further, he leans his snout down and nudges the side of Lenny’s face to get his attention. When Lenny looks up at him, he gestures to his back, and Lenny understands the silent request to return. 

They need to get to an inn, soon. After a long day to travel, Lenny needs to rest. 

But… he can’t just leave these people here like this, now can he? 

There’s a stack of large boxes in the center of the street. Mott climbs on top of them, standing high enough for everyone to see him as he states, “People of New Crestmount: we’re going to do everything we can to lessen the burden of your taxation.” 

Civilians regard him at best like a curious creature in a cage, at worst like a lying scoundrel. They mutter amongst themselves, evidently distrustful of his claims. 

“A lot of people say they’re gonna fix this,” the townsperson with Lenny’s bread pipes up. “What makes you any different?” 

“Because,” Mott says, ignoring his own distaste for his next words: “I’m an Alcott.” 

The muttering changes tune, gasps rising up from the crowd as faces change from disgruntled to astonished. Quiet utterances of ‘Alcott’ are passed around most often, as if it’s a puzzle the people are trying to solve. Disbelief is still evident in their faces, but it’s starting to fade in place of flickering, hesitant hope. These are people who have had their hopes crushed time and time again, so often that the mere feeling of hope makes them preemptively flinch, but now they muster the courage to hope again. And their hopeful gazes are trained solely on him.

Mott sweats and thinks, _oh no_. 

“We have faith in you,” one of them says, their eyes glittering with admiration. “We know you can save us.” 

A cheer rises up from the crowd, loud and wild. Mott forces a smile and hopes it doesn’t appear stiff with nerves. These people went from resigning to crushed dreams to daring to dream again, all because of Mott. That’s… a big responsibility. Almost too big. What if he lets them down? It’s not like he has any internal drive pushing him forward. He’s untethered, lost. They shouldn’t trust him so much, not when he’s directionless and motiveless. 

Frozen, he stares out at the roaring crowd and anxiously laments all his life choices before Lenny squishes his face and pulls it up to make eye contact. Lenny frowns down at him for a second, as if concerned, but the moment passes so quickly Mott figures he must’ve imagined it. With a bright smile, Lenny asks, “Can we head to an inn? I’m starting to get a little tuckered out.” 

He never thought in a million years Lenny would suggest resting, so he leaps on the opportunity, already descending from the boxes. “Yes. Yes, let’s get you somewhere to relax.” 

It takes a bit longer than he’d like to finally travel toward the inn, mostly because everyone in town wants to thank him and praise him like he’s some godsend. Some people even play music and hail him as a savior. He knows he should be soaking this in; this is how nobles should expect to be treated. At the very least, he should be grateful. But all he feels is a pit of nausea deep in his stomach. 

He doesn’t want their praise. He hasn’t even done anything. What if he screws up and lets them down? Then they’ll see the real him, the directionless him, the… the… 

_Failure_. 

“Shut up,” he mutters to himself. 

Lenny looks down at him. “Hmm? Mott, did you say something?” 

Startled out of his daze, Mott stammers, “Oh, uh, no. No, I didn’t say anything.” 

They finally make it through the crowd after receiving a stifling amount of compliments and worship and gratitude. Out on the open street, Mott takes a moment to finally breathe. In and out. The air is clear, but he still feels like he’s choking. He pushes onward and hopes that getting to the inn will make him feel less suffocated. 

The inn isn’t too far, and when they reach it, Mott is overwhelmed by a profound sense of relief. He just wants to get Lenny inside and resting, and he wants to retreat from everyone and everything for a while. But right before he opens the door, something catches his eye and gives him pause. 

On the door, there’s an emblem: a deep blue shield with a silver sword cutting across it.

The Alcott family crest. 

A rush of emotion floods him at the sight, and none of them are particularly good. A quick glance around reveals a dozen other crests decorating various locations, such as lampposts, gates, and statues. It’s not uncommon for lords or ladies of certain cities to display their crest as a reminder of their power and wealth. Seeing the family crest in different cities always used to fill Mott with a sense of pride and power. But now, it’s as if the crests are glaring at him and waiting for him to make a wrong move. 

He quickly slips inside before his feelings spiral out of control. 

Renting and entering the room is a blur, and honestly, Mott doesn’t remember most of it. It was almost as if he was detached from his body, watching a stranger operate him like a machine. When they finally get to the room and Lenny closes the door, he turns and fixes Mott with a small smile. 

“How are you feeling?” Lenny asks. 

Mott blinks at him, confused. Why is Lenny asking how _Mott_ is? He’s not injured.

“I’m… fine? How are you?” 

Lenny studies him for a moment, as if he’s sizing him up. His smile grows, just slightly, as if he’s trying to be soothing. “I’m great, thank you.” 

What’s with this weird mood? 

He shakes it off. “You rest. I’m gonna go request an audience with my uncle. Even with my dubious standing in noble spheres right now, I’m sure he’ll at least give me time to make an appearance.” 

“You don’t gotta go now, you can rest,” Lenny insists, sitting on one of the beds. “We can go together after.” 

“I don’t need to rest,” he denies, and when Lenny gives him a skeptical look, he can’t help the laugh that escapes him. Pressing their foreheads together affectionately, he assures, “Really, Len. I’m fine. _You_ rest.” 

Lenny sticks his tongue out to be defiant. Mott snorts, gently nudging him to lie down. Lenny flails over like he’s been brutally shoved. 

“Mott, you’re so cruel!” Throwing a hand dramatically over his head, he cries, “Don’t you know I’m but a frail, wounded little bug?” 

“Yeah, right. Go to sleep,” Mott scoffs, tugging a blanket over him. “I’ll be back later.” 

Lenny makes some incomprehensible noise as he snuggles deeper into the blankets, sighing with contentment. As Mott walks out the door, he faintly hears Lenny’s drowsy utterance of: “Do good.” 

A small smile tugs on his face as he quietly closes the door. 

It occurs to Mott, as soon as he reaches his uncle’s estate, that he hasn’t been to a rich person’s estate in a long, long time. He forgot how _big_ they are. 

The estate sprawls across lush, green acres adorned in fountains, statues, and gardens. The building towers over him with pillars of gold, shining down on him as if it’s trying to replicate the sun. It’s almost palatial, this estate, and Mott wouldn’t be surprised if he saw the king himself wandering around here. After walking up several flights of marble stairs to reach the glittering gates, Mott catches his breath and curses noble architects. Why are there so many stairs?! 

This estate, in truth, is much smaller than his father’s. Mott has lived in an estate double the size of this one for twenty years, yet somehow this mansion feels larger. Is it because he’s gotten accustomed to a commoner’s life? Or is it because this estate is so grandiose compared to the rest of the town? 

New Crestmount City is not in disrepair like Bela’s Moressley Town was, but there are certainly staggering levels of inequality. After wandering around the streets and watching tax collectors loot people’s pockets, arriving at such a grand mansion provides a stark contrast. It’s kind of… gross, for lack of a better word. It’s gross how the lord over the city thrives on the backs of the people he’s supposed to care for. 

And it just so happens this lord is his uncle. So he either has the best shot at fixing things or he’s about to make holidays awkward for himself for all of eternity. 

When he reaches the gate, the gatekeeper arches a brow at him incredulously. Mott is aware that arriving at a noble’s gate uninvited is pretty presumptuous, but he doesn’t have the time to care. The tax collectors won’t pause their looting for him to get an invitation, so he’s not going to bother with decorum. As confidently as he can, he states, “My name is Montgomery Alcott. I’ve come to request an audience with Lord Theobald Alcott, my uncle.” 

His add on of ‘my uncle’ seems to change things in the gatekeeper's eyes, but not by much. After arching their brow the slightest bit higher, they open the gate and say, “Right this way.” 

Mott follows them along the sophisticated, orderly cobblestone path. Closer to the estate, he can see the statues in greater detail. They’re all marble depictions of his uncle, presenting him as an esteemed, powerful dewott. He swallows a scoff, turning away from the statues. Those images are glorious and wildly inaccurate, making his uncle look like a hero. Mott knows the man looks more like a wiry weasel. 

When they arrive at the doors, a giant version of the family crest glares him in the face. He swallows and averts his gaze. 

The doors open slowly to reveal a majestic foyer adorned in elegant silvers and blues—the official Alcott family colors. Paintings of his uncle cover every wall, just as greatly exaggerated as the statues outside. It makes looking at the actual man quite a chore. 

Uncle Theobald stands in the center of the room, pacing as he lectures a semicircle of tax collectors. His nose twitches like he’s smelled something dreadful as he shrills, “Is this really all you could collect?” Gesturing out the window, he points furiously at dozens of carts overflowing with money. “Thousands of people live in my city, and this is what you return with?” 

The tax collector shuffle shamefully, as if displeasing him is the worst thing they’ve ever done. Mott saw them sucking the townsfolk dry mere hours ago, and they had no shame then. 

One of the collectors weakly explains that people are resistant to pay their dues, but Uncle Theobald interrupts them. “No, no, no; no excuses. I don’t care if they’re resistant, find a way around it. This is my city, and I want my dues. Dismissed!” 

Bowing their heads and swiftly retreating, the tax collectors hurry out the doors and conspire to swipe even more from the people tomorrow. Mott scowls at their backs, which bear a bag with the Alcott crest. 

“Lord Theobald.” The gatekeeper announces themself with a bow. Uncle Theobald arches a brow at them, then at Mott. His expression doesn’t hold half the disdain Mott was expecting, considering the stain Mott is on their family name right now. Then again, chances are his uncle doesn’t even recognize him. “Your nephew, Montgomery Alcott, is here to request an audience with you.” 

The slightest flicker of recognition lights up Uncle Theobald’s eyes. And just like that, his muted and indifferent expression turns to that of joy. 

“Montgomery! My goodness, I didn’t even recognize you, seeing you evolved.” Uncle Theobald’s voice is honeyed and thick with cloying, false sentiment. “How are you progressing with taking over estate affairs? Can I expect to see you as the new Alcott patriarch, soon?” 

Mott forces a smile. He’s pretty sure it looks more like a cringe. 

“That’s Preston, Uncle. My older brother,” he explains, patiently. “I’m the middle child. I’m not inheriting any titles.” 

Certainly not as the Alcott patriarch. But after seeing what the Callahan patriarch title has done to Florian, Mott is secretly glad he’s not the firstborn. 

“Ah yes, silly me. Ruling over these unruly townspeople has gotten so difficult, I’ve begun to forget even the simplest of things,” Uncle Theobald bemoans, painting himself as a pitiful victim of stress rather than a forgetful and absent uncle. It’s a miracle that Mott resists the urge to roll his eyes into the back of his skull. “So you’re the one who’s been banished from the family, hmm?” 

The nonchalance in his tone throws Mott for a loop. Most nobles foam at the mouth in either pure hatred or feverish delight when they remember his current status. With equal parts hesitance and awkwardness, he responds, “...Yup. That was me.” 

“Wonderful of you to stop by, truly; I’m in great need of your help,” his uncle insists, jumping to the next topic with ease. “This city is the only plot of land I inherited from my father and your grandfather—may he rest in peace—and it stands to reason that I should own everything in this city, but the commoners are pesky and stubborn. They absolutely refuse to obey and pay their dues.” 

Probably because their dues are exorbitant and outrageous. Still, in an attempt to humor his uncle while still maintaining his own sanity, he deadpans, “That’s wild.” 

“You’re absolutely right!” Uncle Theobald proclaims, huffing and stomping his foot like a child. “Ungrateful bastards!” 

Mott decides to cut to the chase. “I came to ask you—” 

“Who do they think they are, defying me? I earned this plot of land fair and square, it’s my birthright and I deserve to use it as I see fit!” His uncle interrupts, ranting furiously and completely ignoring him. Sighing pathetically like he might fall and swoon into a nearby couch, he laments, “Alas, I am only one man, and I cannot reach my control to every part of the city at once…” 

“That sucks. So, anyways—” 

In a flash, Uncle Theobald’s weakened, withering persona dashes away and makes room for a bright smile. Snapping his fingers, he states, “That’s it! Montgomery, you can stay with me and help me collect the taxes I deserve. Two Alcotts are always better than one, after all!” 

Mott somehow manages to restrain himself from physically recoiling. “No.” 

“Why not? If you do good enough work, I’ll even put in a word with your father to permit you back into the family.” 

Mott wants to deny the offer, but something closes in his throat. 

“You might even get your family crest,” his uncle adds. 

His throat tightens. 

Before he can dwell on the feeling or even think about what it may mean, he says, “Listen, I’m not here to help you. I’m here to ask you to stop taxing the people at such exorbitant rates.” 

His uncle whips his head around to stare at him, eyes nearly bugging out of his head. Incredulously, he asks, “Why on Earth would you want me to stop _that_?”

“Because it’s unethical.” 

“The only unethical things about this situation is that they won’t pay what they rightfully owe,” his uncle declares, brows furrowed. “It’s the law, and they’re disobeying it. Isn’t that the real issue?” 

An immediate retort springs from him. “Laws don’t dictate morality; when laws uphold corrupt systems then they’re inherently immoral.” 

“I own this city, bequeathed to me by my father, as my inherent right as a member of the Alcott family. Since it is mine, I reserve the right to do with it as I please, and anyone interfering with that is dishonorable—wouldn’t you agree?” 

“Not if what you own directly impacts the lives of thousands. You hold a responsibility to them,” Mott argues, his voice raising. He catches himself before he starts shouting, though, and takes a deep, measured breath. It’s been a long time since he’s gotten in a dispute with a noble. He forgot how philosophically twisted they could be: full of big words with empty meaning. “Listen: just reduce your rates. It’ll be better for you in the long-run, anyways. It’ll promote harmony between you and your citizens and make the town flourish. Riches will pour in for everyone, that way.” 

Uncle Theobald scoffs. “That’s where your naivety comes in, Montgomery—this was never about _everyone_. It’s about the Alcotts.” 

Mott clenches his jaw, tight. Any tighter and he’d be grinding his teeth to dust. 

“You used to understand that,” his uncle sighs, shaking his head like he’s dealing with some impetuous brat. “You were such an obedient child. What changed?” 

“I met someone,” he says without thinking, “who deserves a lot better than me, but he still stays. So, I’m doing everything I can to be better. I’m learning, and I’m following after him.” 

At that, his uncle snorts, as if amused. Mott feels a vein pop in his forehead. 

“That’s a load of shit, my dear nephew, and you know it.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Tell me: whose footsteps do you see me following in? Do you see your father following after someone? Did your grandfather, and his father before him, and every Alcott patriarch in our great past settle for idly _following_?” 

Before Mott can reply, Uncle Theobald answers his own question with a sneer and a pointed look. “Alcotts do not follow, my boy. They lead. Do you think we became the king’s most trusted allies because we sat meekly in the shadows? Do you think we grew to such esteem and power by trailing after others? No! If you can’t carve a path for yourself, you’ll end up wandering through life with no direction.” 

“That’s not true,” Mott states on reflex. 

“Then tell me: what are your goals? What motivates you?” 

Mott opens his mouth to say—something. He’s sure. But nothing comes out. 

He doesn’t know what motivates him. He hasn’t for a while, now. He’s been trying to ignore how directionless and confused he is by following after Lenny, but is it enough? When he lets his guard down, when his mind wanders into murky territory, the insidious voice that haunts him emerges from the dark. And it always, always knows just what to say. 

_Failure._

“You’re failing the Alcott name. No wonder you were banished,” Uncle Theobald muses nonchalantly to himself, as if his words aren’t sharpened daggers. “You follow blindly because you have no direction. No motivation. Living an empty life like that will turn you just as empty.” 

He wants to argue. He wants to say that he’s following Lenny for a purpose, but—but the only reason he decided to follow was because he lost all sense of purpose. When removing the family crest from the equation, Mott is motivated by nothing. Even if his uncle is an ass, is it possible that he’s right about Mott? 

Is Mott becoming empty? 

_Worthless, useless, no-good waste of time._

“Empty men are worthless men to the Alcott family,” his uncle continues, pacing around him. “You’ve been uselessly wandering about with some outsider, following after this nobody and wasting your time. Wasting our family’s time.” He stops, just inside the corner of Mott’s eye, and narrows his eyes at him. “Considering this, I think it’s rather obvious that you’ve never gotten your family crest.” 

_Failure._

Mott can’t become empty. He can’t become even more of a failure than he already is; he can’t drag Lenny into danger after danger after danger without a justifiable reason. Otherwise, he’s risking Lenny’s life for—for what? 

For _nothing_? 

“Montgomery, look at me.” Mott turns his head to his uncle, who is regarding him with sickening sympathy. “You’re confused. You’ve been away from the family for far too long. It’s not your fault that you’ve lost all sense of direction, poor thing, you’ve been so alone that you’ve forgotten what really matters.” 

Uncle Theobald speaks with such certainty. What Mott wouldn’t give for a sliver of that self-assuredness right now; something to tether him in this monstrous void. 

“Stay for a little while. As long as you’d like,” his uncle offers, flashing him a toothy, honeyed smile. “I’ll catch you up to speed on Alcott affairs, and I’ll even allow you to help me with collecting my dues. You’ll feel like yourself in no time: confident and clear-headed. You’ll remember what drives you and you’ll be back to feeling normal in no time.” 

There’s a kernel of truth to what his uncle is saying, maybe even more than that. Mott is directionless. He’s confused. Everything he thought he knew about his desires and his identity has been stripped away, leaving him bare and lost in the wilderness. Ever since his banishment, his life has been one upheaval after another. 

He’s leading himself and Lenny to their deaths without even knowing why. 

He needs to pause. He needs to take a step back. Chasing Zekrom is a bad idea right now. He needs stability. He needs things to go back to normal. It’ll be just long enough to get his head back on right and figure things out so he’s not charging straight to Death’s Door without a reason. 

Lenny said so himself: no one does anything without a reason. If Mott has no reason for what he’s doing, why should he do it at all? _Should_ he do it?

He looks away from his uncle to stare at his feet, as if they will help him sort out his thoughts. Before he can do any of that, though, he notices the rug beneath him for the first time: a picture perfect replica of the Alcott family crest. 

It’s always been just beneath the surface of who he is, hasn’t it? It’s always been his foundation. Who is he if he’s not chasing after it? 

_Failure. How old are you, and you still don’t have your family’s approval? You worthless, useless, no-good waste of time._

He looks up at Uncle Theobald. His facial features are schooled into such perfect neutrality that it makes his uncle beam with pride. 

“Okay,” he says, slowly, “I will help you.” 

Uncle Theobald claps his hands together with delight. “Wonderful! Just wonderful! I know you’ll accomplish great things for the Alcott family, just wait and see!” 

Turning his head and shouting down a corridor, his uncle summons the tax collectors back into the room. They all share confused glances with each other as they size Mott up. Mott stares back at them, deliberately feeling nothing. 

This is what he wants. 

“Everyone, I’d like to introduce you to your newest overseer: Montgomery Alcott!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mott: I want to help these people and stop my uncle from being a dick 
> 
> EvilKermit!Mott: help your uncle instead 
> 
> Mott: what why 
> 
> EvilKermit!Mott: you just gotta 
> 
> What the hell is going on with Mott? Why is he going back to this? What do you guys think? Let me know in the comments!


	17. Why, Then, Do They Not Eat Cake?

“So, you got a meeting with your uncle today? Does that mean your meeting yesterday went well?” 

Mott nods absentmindedly as he searches for his bag. 

“That’s great! Earlier, you said you didn’t think you could convince him, but look at you now! And do you think the meeting will go well?” 

Again, Mott nods. Where is that darn bag? He could’ve sworn he’d left it beside his bed last night… 

Ah, there it is. Right on the nightstand, right in front of his face. What’s going on with him today? It’s like his head just isn’t working with him right now. 

“Is it gonna be super official and stuffy? Are you gonna have to do all your fancy etiquette? Do you even _remember_ all that fancy etiquette?” 

Mott nods, strapping an empty satchel over his back. He waited until Lenny was asleep to empty the contents of the bag and hide them under his bed. He can’t collect his uncle’s dues with an already full bag. Even so, he’s still wondering if one bag is enough. Collecting so much from each person will fill the bag pretty quick; perhaps he should consider buying another bag today… 

As he’s silently doing the math in his head, he doesn’t notice Lenny walk over to him until there’s a tap on his shoulder. When he looks down, Lenny looks up like he’s studying him. A moment of silence drifts over them, but Lenny’s gaze doesn’t grow any less perceptive. If anything, it’s almost like he can see right through Mott. 

His heart skips a beat at the thought. Does Lenny know? 

Of course not. How would he? Lenny smiles at him, none the wiser. 

“I know this ain’t easy, trying to convince family members to change their ways. Especially when you already have such a tense relationship with your family,” Lenny says, rubbing his arm. “But you’re pushing through it and doing the right thing, anyway. I’m proud of you.” 

Mott swallows, and nods, and ignores every feeling that rises up in his chest. 

Lenny beams like a bright idea suddenly struck him. Hurrying over to the fireplace, he chirps, “I’m gonna make you a cake.” 

“What?” 

“I’m gonna make you a cake, for being so great!” Lenny proclaims, shuffling through bags beside the fire. 

“You don’t need to do that,” Mott says, hastily. 

“I know, but you deserve it,” Lenny insists. His stomach churns. He opens his mouth, but Lenny beats him to the chase. “And don’t you dare say you don’t. You deserve nice things, y’hear?”

“...You really should just rest,” Mott eventually suggests, nudging Lenny to the bed. Lenny stubbornly stays put, humming to himself as he rummages through their bags for some cash and supplies. After a moment of watching this, feeling a creeping sense of nausea, Mott turns away and says, “I’m gonna head out. Please rest, okay?” 

Lenny playfully salutes him. “Yessir! When you come home, there’ll be a yummy cake waiting for you!” 

He heads out. 

Counting money is a familiar task. He used to do it all the time for his father’s estate, checking over the books and making an inventory of their assets. This kind of work suits him. Returning to it has brought him a certain level of comfort. A relief. For the first time since he’s been thrown out of his family’s carriage, he feels powerful again. Any apprehensions he may have had about returning to this drift away like smoke in the wind. 

One of the tax collectors presents a satchel of dues at his feet, bowing their head and quietly exiting the room. They don’t make eye contact with him once. It’s not a subtle snub—it’s a sign of deferential respect. As an Alcott, one of the richest families in the region, there aren’t many people who can look him in the eyes as an equal. 

Tugging the new satchel over to his desk, Mott rummages through the contents to get a general idea of what’s been brought to him. There’s mostly copper and silver coins, a few golden pieces interspersed in there, and a few trinkets that appear to be family heirlooms of some sort. Buried beneath some necklaces and coins, a half-eaten, moldy piece of bread lies. Mott grimaces, plucking it out and tossing it aside. Is that really the best thing they could get from someone?

He starts portioning out the contents of the bag, organizing them into categories and counting them. The familiarity of the task is soothing, much different from the constant fear and self-doubt that gripped him in his Zekrom quest. The task is so natural, in fact, that he begins to zone out and think of other things: like how to convince Lenny to stay. 

He can’t tell Lenny what he’s doing for his uncle, not yet. Lenny wouldn’t understand. So until he finds a way to make Lenny understand, he has to provide a reason for staying in this town for so long. He’s not quite sure what that reason will be, yet. 

Regardless, they’ll be staying for a while. Too long to keep holed up in the inn. With the shares of the earnings his uncle granted him, he could buy a nice little house for them to stay. Instead of hopping from town to town, travelling by aching foot, they could live in comfort. 

Suddenly, Mott snaps out of it. What on earth is he thinking, buying a little house for himself off the taxation? 

With all this money, he can afford a _huge_ house! 

He can see it now: everyday, he goes to work with his uncle and reclaims his standing in the Alcott family. He’ll keep books just like he is now, never to be plagued with worries or insecurities again. After that, he’ll come home to Lenny, who’ll probably be cooking or singing badly or accidentally knocking something over. Maybe he’ll even invite Torquil and Florian over sometimes, if Florian promises not to be an asshole. 

The more Mott thinks about it, the nicer this fantasy seems. This future… Mott likes it. He can’t believe he left this life for as long as he has. 

Rummaging through his bag, he searches for any coins that may have gotten left behind, hidden in the folds of the fabric, but he finds none. Instead, he spots a folded scrap of paper. Furrowing his brow, he pulls it out and tries to recall where it came from. It’s not until he opens it that he recalls. 

_Professor Hallowood, Stawford Town, Bridge St._

Oh. Right. The lead from the curator. 

The _dead_ curator. 

The sudden reminder of her is jarring and unpleasant. Or, more accurately, the sudden reminder of what happened to her is the upsetting part. She died for his old cause—defeating Zekrom. Her last moments were spent trying to aid Mott and Lenny in their quest. And now, Mott is here. Counting taxes. 

He… doesn’t like how that makes him feel. 

Shaking himself off, he tries to cast the thought aside so he can get back to work, but it lingers in the back of his mind and refuses to fade. The persisting existence of this thought itches under his skin and frustrates him. Just two minutes ago, he was on top of the world. He was feeling as powerful and whole as he always used to, but then one little scrap of paper made its way into his hands and now he feels indecisive and… and… 

_Uncomfortable_. 

He feels uncomfortable, for lack of a better word. It’s like he’s trying to learn how to walk for the first time, and he’s floundering. What he’s doing now—counting dues—used to be his old task in his family estate. It’s nothing new. So why does he feel like an imposter in his own skin? 

He wants to rip up the note. For whatever terrible feelings it’s plaguing him with, he wants to cast it into the fireplace and forget it. He should. He really should; it would serve this stupid Zekrom quest just right to be tossed aside and neglected forever. Yet, he can’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he finds himself tucking it carefully into the pocket of his bag, folding it back in place.

If he thought that burying it back in his satchel would solve anything, he’d be dead wrong. If anything, he’s even more conflicted now, and he doesn’t even know _why_. Guilt gnaws at his chest until it feels hollow. 

There isn’t much time to think about it, because soon enough, his uncle bursts theatrically through the doors. Mott doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing. When Uncle Theobald struts in and sees the haul of money in the corner, his eyes glimmer. 

“Why, did you bring all of this in today?” He exclaims, gasping with delight. Surveying the bounty, he proclaims, “This is outstanding! Just outstanding! I knew two Alcotts working together could get wonderful things done, but I’d have never guessed how powerful we can be together.” 

Mott stares at his uncle, blinking with surprise. Did he just… praise him? That’s not really how things work in this family. 

Nonetheless, he’s appreciative of the gesture. It even makes the burden in his chest lighten, just a little. So, somewhat dumbed by shock, he replies, “Uh, thanks.” 

“We really make a good team, don’t we Montgomery?” 

Mott doesn’t know why that makes him wince, nor why it makes the conflict in his chest rage even stronger. 

Mott returns to the inn, a satisfying ache in his joints as he stretches them out. After a long, hard day, he’s glad to be back home. He’d only had one little moment where the day wasn’t so good, when he saw the curator’s note, but that didn’t last long. His uncle had wanted Mott to show him the financial records he’d drafted up, so any dark thoughts had been swiftly swept aside. 

While he was showing his uncle the books, he could hardly go a minute without being praised in some way. It was strange, but not unwelcome. As if his uncle could tell he was suffering from an internal conflict, he’d been sure to shower Mott in abundant praise to soften the ache in his chest. Soon enough, he was forgetting all about his worries and diving into the world he’d so longed to return to. 

All in all, it was a satisfying day. Returning to the warm inn is like a cherry on top. As soon as he closes the door behind him, a familiar, buggy head pokes out from behind a dresser. 

“You’re back!” Lenny exclaims, beaming. He pulls himself to his feet, his burned limbs trembling slightly. Mott moves to help him up, but Lenny brushes him off. “So? How did it go? Is your uncle gonna lessen the taxes on the people? Ooh, was it really awkward talking to him about that? I can imagine that being really awkward.” 

Mott smiles, booping their heads together. “It was great.” 

A look of delighted relief washes over Lenny. “So does that mean—?” 

“He’s not gonna lower the taxes, yet,” Mott says with a natural shrug. Maybe this is how he can convince Lenny to stay: say he needs just one more day to convince his uncle, over and over again. “I’ll have to visit again tomorrow and see what I can do.” 

Lenny clucks and shakes his head, frowning. “Well, he sure sounds like a piece of work. Thank you for handling all that. I can’t imagine it’s all that fun.” 

“Honestly,” Mott says, grinning, “it’s more fun than you’d think.” 

They start to settle down for the night, Lenny making them a small dinner and Mott reading one of the inn’s books aloud to him: a murder mystery. Every sentence or two, Lenny interrupts to ask about a dozen questions— _who’s this character again? wait, why are they chasing the duke? what did they jump in the well for?_ —and Mott quickly loses his own train of thought. In the end, he ends up laughing at Lenny’s impression of the terribly written main character, the book lying forgotten beside him. 

As Lenny serves their dinner, he says, “Oh, I almost forgot! Mott, I never got to bake your cake!” 

Between bites, Mott responds, “It’s not a big deal, don’t worry about it.” 

“I really meant to, honest! But you see, I went out and bought the ingredients and was fixing to come back and make it but then I saw a family who was looking awfully hungry and I thought, ‘well, I can’t just let them starve, now can I?’ and I gave the ingredients to them.” 

“It’s fine, Len.” 

“So then I figured, ‘I guess I oughta go buy some more ingredients, then,’ and so I went all the way back to the market but those darn tax collectors were roaming all around the place and they asked me for my money and so I told them, ‘well, sirs, I don’t live here’ but then they said, ‘well you’re gonna have to prove it, mister.” 

“You don’t need to bake me a cake.” 

“I spent a good twenty minutes trying awfully hard to prove I don’t live here, but they wanted to see my birth certificate as proof, and I don’t know about you but I don’t even _have_ a birth certificate, much less one to carry around wherever I go. So I had to give them some money, so I returned to the inn to get more money to buy the ingredients but by the time I got back you got here so I decided I oughta start fixing up dinner instead and that I could just make the cake tomorrow.” 

“You really should just focus on healing,” Mott suggests, nodding to his injuries. Even if they’re faded compared to before, they’re still unsightly and incredibly painful looking. “Just stay in here and rest tomorrow, okay?” 

“You know I can’t do that,” Lenny denies, bumping into his shoulder affectionately. “I can’t just laze around in here while you’re doing so much work to try and help these people. It wouldn’t be right.” 

Mott takes a bite of his food and says nothing, deliberately ignoring the return of the aching gnaw in his chest. Why is this feeling coming back to him now? He wasn’t even thinking of the curator’s note or the Zekrom quest! In fact, he’d been entirely content to forget all about those things. So why can’t he stick to being happy? 

His emotions have been fluctuating all day. One minute, he’ll feel on top of the world, like his father had never thrown him out of that carriage all those months ago, and then the next he feels like a stranger in his own body. He goes from his highest highest to his lowest lows at the drop of a hat. Whenever he’s at his highest, he feels pleasantly numb to the rest of the world. But at his lowest, he feels it all crashing down on him with keen and torturous perception. 

Sometimes, there’s nothing he wants to do more than help his uncle. But sometimes, just the thought of associating himself with the man makes his skin crawl. 

But what else is he going to do? He has nowhere else to go. He won’t— _can’t_ —return to his doomed Zekrom quest. If he tried to beg his father for grace, he’d be berated straight out the door, and the thought of seeing his father make’s him queasy. 

This is his only option. He won’t be made to feel guilty about this. 

If only he could get himself on board with that. 

“My, my, Montgomery, you’re back bright and early!” Uncle Theobald commends, clasping his hands together in delight. Leaning forward to glance at the accounting books Mott works with, he says, “Quite good work ethic you have!” 

Mott still isn’t used to being praised by family, so he can only manage a stiff nod. 

“Really, I couldn’t ask for a better helper. We’ve already seen an increase in profits with you around!” Uncle Theobald claps a friendly hand on his back. Mott doesn’t know how to react to that. He offers an awkward and painful smile. “At this rate, you’ll be back in the family and have the crest in no time at all.” 

At that, Mott actually perks up. “You think so?” 

“Why, certainly,” his uncle responds smoothly. “With all the help you’ve given me, I’d be honored to speak to your father on your behalf.” 

Mott’s heart skips a beat. He’s not sure why, but it doesn’t feel like it’s precisely due to excitement. He ignores this thought so he can answer his uncle. “That would be great,” he says, because it would be. Objectively, it would be great to be reaccepted into the Alcott family. Logically, too. And… several other reasons. 

So, yeah. It would be great. 

This is what he wants. 

Uncle Theobald nods to himself for a moment before his gaze slides back to Mott. “That is, of course, assuming your productivity continues.” 

“It will,” he assures on reflex, much more used to this kind of treatment from family. Constantly having to affirm his capabilities to family members is a familiar chore. “In fact, I was just about to go into town and oversee the tax collection myself.” 

“Very good, very good,” his uncle says, although he doesn’t sound particularly pleased. He glances once more at the books. He looks up at Mott, a flare of impatience in his eyes. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get on it!” 

It’s not a long walk to the town, but for whatever reason, Mott feels drained by the time he gets there. Most of the tax collectors are already hard at work, their bags filled to the brim. One of them is playing tug-of-war with an elderly lady over a scraggly old blanket. She stubbornly refuses to release it no matter how much they insist. Impatiently, Mott walks over and swipes it away. 

The old woman stares up at him with disbelief that soon hardens itself into crestfallen resignation. She mutters, “We shoulda known betta than to trust an Alcott.” 

He steadfastly ignores her, turning to the nearest tax collector. “Let’s wrap this up quickly.” Turning away and muttering to himself, he says, “I can’t stand being here any longer.” 

The night grows dark as the tax collectors’ work comes to a close. Their pouches are overflowing with money and goods, but Mott finds no satisfaction in it. Townsfolk shuffle into their huts, weary and gaunt, closing their rickety doors behind them. With no other people to collect from, the work comes to a halt. 

“Good work,” he robotically commends, ignoring the hollowness gnawing at him. “Go home; we’ll collect more tomorrow.” 

Murmurs of consent and agreement rise up from the collectors, and they gradually disperse. Soon enough, Mott is alone in the dark, empty streets. He stares at the flickering torch light illuminating the dirty huts around him, lost in thought. 

There’s a soft sound behind him—a pained sound. He turns. 

Immediately, hot fingers of horror creep up his spine. 

It’s Lenny. 

“Lenny,” he croaks, his throat suddenly dry. How long has he been standing there? How much did he see? “What are you doing? You should be resting.” 

Lenny stares at him. Mott stares back, taking in the state of his bandages. Some of them are bleeding around the arms; probably the wounds were exacerbated by the box Lenny is carrying in his hands. It makes Mott’s heart lurch, and he takes a step forward. 

Lenny takes a flinching step back. 

Mott halts. Lenny’s eyes flicker with something unplaceable. Then they shift down, pointedly staring at the tax collector's bag slung around him. 

His heart stops. 

“Listen, I can explain—” 

Lenny doesn’t wait to hear it. With an entirely blank expression, Lenny drops the box to the ground, the contents spilling out messily. He turns and walks away. 

“Lenny, wait!” Mott shouts, chasing after him. He steps in something sticky. Looking down, he sees Lenny’s box at his feet, he sees creme on his foot. Trying to shake it off, he yells, “Lenny!” 

Lenny doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even pause. No matter how much Mott calls for him, he doesn’t return. Well, fine. Fine! Screw him; he can go straight to hell! Mott has a great new life that doesn’t involve Lenny at all. And he’s happy with it. He really is. He could never see Lenny again, and that would be okay. Really. 

The creme is drying on his foot. Aggravated, he makes a sound of frustration, vigorously and fruitlessly trying to shake the crusted creme off. All he accomplishes is kicking the box aside, revealing the destroyed contents inside. 

It’s a cake. On the top, scribbled in clumsy, earnest letters, is a short message paired with a smiley face: _you’re the best!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lenny: *sees Mott being a dick* 
> 
> Mott *nervous laughter* I'm in danger
> 
> So.... this is not an ideal moment for our heroes. Mott seems to be regressing, and not only that, Lenny caught him in the act. How is this going to work out? Will they reconcile? Will they spiral further out of control?! Tune in next Wednesday to find out! 
> 
> Thanks as always for reading!


	18. All Your Dreams Have Come True

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news, exams are over for me! Less good news, I have to write my senior thesis now that I don't have exams. But that still gives me more time to devote to this fic! And to make sure I don't miss anymore update days! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy today's chapter :)

Mott wakes up in a luxurious bed. It’s plush and velvet, adorned with satin sheets. It has everything he’s missed so dearly these past few months, sleeping in dusty inns or at the side of a cold road. It’s really wonderful. Truly. 

He stares at the ceiling for who knows how long. Golden designs decorate the room, intricate enough to speak to the artist’s talent. Intricate enough to speak to the Lord’s wealth. The room is as shining and immaculate as he’s longed for. Ever since setting out on this fool’s errand to defeat Zekrom, this is what he’s been fighting to get back to. This is his reward. It’s his dream come true. 

Why does he feel so hollow? 

When he eventually rises from bed, he somehow ends up in the study counting dues. He doesn’t remember how. It’s just a repetitive motion that he hardly processes: one coin, two coins. These past few days have been a blur, in that way. One coin. A slow, monotonous, hollow blur. Two coins. He simply wakes up and goes through the motions until it’s time to go to bed. 

One coin. Two coins.

His motions feel like a dream. It’s as if he’s detached from his own body, watching someone else move his limbs. No matter how hard he tries to forget, his mind keeps returning to the night Lenny caught him. Every detail of the memory is crisp and bold, almost sharp enough to cut himself on. The expression on Lenny’s face—that blank look in his eyes. Mott has never seen him look like that before. But what’s really plaguing his mind is that he was the one to make Lenny look like that. 

He loses count. He starts over. 

It’s difficult to keep the gold, silver, and copper coins separate. They all look the same to him. The unique luster and shine is dulled; they look like clouded, old metal. They feel slimy in his hands, too, like they were dug out of a dumpster. They might as well have been. Those bags slung over the tax collector’s shoulders are just as filthy inside and out. Mott keeps having them washed, but it doesn’t do any good. Maybe the filth is just in his imagination. 

He’s pondering this (but not really—his mind can’t focus enough to truly ponder anything) when his uncle strolls by. His hands are clasped behind his back and he gazes around the room as he enters, as if he just happened to wander in. Mott can see right through his ruse; he knows Uncle Theobald is checking on his progress. He’s done the same thing everyday since Lenny left. 

Is that how Mott measures time now? By how long it’s been since Lenny left him? Mott could almost laugh, imagining himself as an old man trying to count coins while he’s too busy counting the years since he last saw Lenny. 

Very suddenly, the thought becomes too miserable to even think of laughing. 

Uncle Theobald eyes the large pile of uncounted dues. “You woke late again, I see.” 

“Yeah,” Mott drones, routinely shuffling coins across the desk. 

If he’s looking for a more elaborate response, he won’t be getting it. Just saying that one word has exhausted Mott beyond all reason. 

“Montgomery, my boy,” Uncle Theobald starts with a gusty sigh, “it seems that your work ethic has been slacking as of late.” 

Mott nods. “Yeah. Sorry about that.” 

“I want to help you get the family crest, I truly do,” he laments, lathering the pity on thick. “But I cannot do it alone.” 

Mott nods. “Sorry.” 

“I see no way that I can help you if you continue on like this.” His uncle shakes his head. “You must work for your own crest, you realize?” 

Mott nods. 

One coin. Two coins. 

Uncle Theobald doesn’t seem pleased with his lack of response. He taps his fingers irritably on the desk, as if waiting for something. Mott doesn’t look up. He focuses on his counting. One coin. Two coins. The impatient tapping picks up speed.

Eventually, Uncle Theobald grows sick of waiting around. “Fine. I see you are in a wretched mood. Go on, feel sorry for yourself and leave me to suffer. I suppose I must be a terrible uncle if you feel so inclined to treat me this way.” 

Mott doesn’t have the energy for a response, so he says nothing. His uncle’s impatience spikes to a boiling point, and he turns on his heel and stalks out of the room, slamming the door. The back of the door is marked with the Alcott family crest. Mott drops his eyes from it. It just looks like a bunch of colors and symbols, to him. 

One coin. Two coins. 

He loses track of time. Counting eventually comes to a close, and he shuts the ledgers and puts them aside. Turning his head to the window shows that it’s still early afternoon. A deep, discontent sigh rises out of him. What is he supposed to do with all this time? He wishes he could just go back to sleep. 

He decides against it. His uncle is already furious with him, no need to make it worse by appearing lazy. So, he finds himself wandering the estate. He hasn’t been here since he was a kid, and he hasn’t done a lot of exploring in the few days he’s been here, so now seems like a good time to give himself a tour. Even if every room looks the same to him. 

His aimless tour brings him to a stuffy library and a bland dining room. The window curtains are tightly shut in every room, and for whatever reason this gets under his skin, so he tears open the nearest curtains to let the sunshine in. The light is pale and feeble, and it doesn’t do much to improve his mood. He keeps waiting for a merry voice and a bright smile to try and cheer him up. 

Obviously, he’s not gonna find that here. Restless, he shuts the curtain and decides to go outside. 

He passes a group of tax collectors as he walks by. They eye him silently as he walks by, shuffling away as if he has the plague. As his mood has declined, their desire to avoid him has spiked. That’s fine with him. Everytime he sees their overflowing bags branded with his family insignia, his chest clenches and he finds it hard to breathe.

Before he leaves, he figures he better tell his uncle he’ll be out and about. At this time of day, his uncle is usually in his study. Mott pokes his head in and calls, “Uncle?” 

He doesn’t get a response, so he walks in, looking for a sign of him. The desk is a little cluttered, suggesting recent use. Mott approaches it to see if his uncle is behind it, or something. Who knows, the guy is small. It doesn’t hurt to check. 

No such luck. He almost laughs at himself for expecting to find Uncle Theobald tucked behind his desk like some small, mousy vermin. The laugh dies in his throat when he sees several documents watermarked with the Alcott family crest. 

He shouldn’t snoop, but the crests are burning into his eyes, and he really just wants to turn them over. He hides one by tucking a document over it, and his eyes instinctively scroll over the writing inside. It’s a will, he realizes, from his grandfather: the old patriarch of the Alcott family. Which means there’s another damned crest on it. 

He steadfastly ignores the symbol to scan over the contents of the paper. It’s written in his grandfather’s bold, pretentious handwriting, bequeathing a bulk of the family fortune to his own father while handing down investments and such to the other siblings. One thing that piques Mott’s interest is the following: _all existing properties and other such real estate shall henceforth belong to Lennox Alcott._

According to this will, Mott’s father should own all Alcott properties. Why does his Uncle own New Crestmount City, then? 

He spots another document—a codicil. In it, all properties are bequeathed to his father, except for New Crestmount City. It’s written under his grandfather’s name… but definitely not in his handwriting. 

Interesting. 

Mott wasn’t _going_ to snoop, but now he can’t help himself. He shuffles papers around to see if he can rifle out any more juicy family secrets. A long lost cousin? A deadbeat relative? A forbidden elopement? The only scandal he can find is in a letter from his father to his uncle, detailing a pathetic family member who brings shame to the Alcott name. 

Oh. It’s him. 

All the interest Mott had in rooting out drama is drained from him. He already knows how this story goes—how he’s a worthless, useless, no-good waste of time, yadda yadda yadda. In fact, he sees those same words repeated throughout the missive several, several times. 

He puts the letter down. 

He’s tired. He really should go outside, now. 

When he finally gets outside, he takes a deep breath. The air is fresh, and it lessens the pain in his chest by a fraction. The courtyard is the epitome of opulent. Grand statues and flourishing gardens sprawl around him. He’s surrounded by all the luxury he’s grown up with his whole life, the luxury he’s been fighting to get back to. 

It festers under his skin. 

He walks around with no direction, wearily perusing the statues and fountains. They’re all lackluster and sordid. The only thing in the courtyard that retains his attention for more than a few seconds are the flowers. They’re bright and joyful, and they remind him of bad singing and clumsiness and sewing. 

Without thinking, he plucks a few flowers. He doesn’t really know why. There’s a yearning compulsion in him to gather as many flowers in his hands and keep them close. He wants to hold them tight so he won’t lose a single one. Picking all sorts—purple, blue, red, pink, white—he collects a pile so large that he doesn’t know what to do with it. Eventually, he ends up sitting in the middle of the courtyard, staring at the armful of flowers as they rustle in the breeze. 

Just as suddenly as the compulsion to pick them crashed upon him, so does the immense guilt. Why did he do that? Now all of these flowers are going to die. 

He feels, for lack of a better word, like utter shit. There has to be some way he can save them, right? They’re still vibrant and full of color; surely they’re not too far gone? 

Obviously he can’t just attach the flowers back to their stems. With the flowers tucked in his arm, he walks with a crooked limp to find a new place to plant them. He wanders farther and farther from the estate, away from the statues and fountains, until there’s nothing but open field around him. It takes him a few more minutes to find a suitable patch of dirt where he might be able to replant them. He settles down and starts digging through the earth. 

It takes an effort of vigilance to dig holes while keeping the flowers from blowing away in the wind, but he manages it. He places each decapitated part into its own hole, patting the dirt around them. The petals fold and flutter in the wind, but they don’t rip out of the ground, so Mott considers it a success. Relatively. They look a little wilted and dull. 

Maybe they just need water. Mott’s got plenty of that. He ejects a generous couple gallons on them, hoping that will do the trick. When he’s done, the water puddles unpleasantly and the flowers are flat against the mud. 

…He’s not exactly an expert at gardening. 

Seeing the flowers all soggy and drooping doesn’t improve Mott’s mood. He feels like he’s one of those flowers, sagging and miserable. The feeling yanks at his heartstrings. He made this mess, and then he made it even worse. The least he can do is see if there’s any gardening supplies in town that might help. 

He’s reluctant to leave the flowers in such a state, but there’s not much else he can do. If he doesn’t figure something out, they’re gonna end up becoming mulch. As he makes his way to the town, he wonders what might help the flowers and how he’ll know it will help. He’s studied a lot of things in his life, but gardening didn’t make the list. He’d never even seen a farm until he’d been to Lenny’s house. Not that Lenny’s family farm was much of a farm at all; it was more like dirt and dead plants. 

Would Lenny know how to fix the flowers? 

Mott shakes the thought from his head. It doesn’t matter what Lenny does or does not know, this is his mess to fix. Besides, Lenny made it pretty clear a few days ago how he feels about Mott right now. He can’t imagine seeing him would be much of a delight. 

He hopes Lenny’s okay, though. He hopes he’s not working himself too hard. If Lenny thinks someone needs help, he’s not gonna rest until it’s done. Lenny’s awfully stubborn; he might be as skinny as a twig, but he can be as immovable as a rock when he wants to be. 

But that doesn’t mean he’s invincible—these past few weeks have been a glaring reminder of that. Watching Lenny struggle to recover shoved his vulnerability straight into Mott’s face. Seeing Lenny’s skin stripped raw and the tender flesh beneath it bared had reminded Mott not just how fragile Lenny is, but how weak he himself is. How inadequate he is. 

It’s nothing new, though. Isn’t that what his father has been telling him all this time? 

His thoughts spiral and consume him until he bumps into someone. He snaps back into awareness, realizing with a start that he’s already wandered into town.

“Sorry,” he says, to the person he ran into. 

They whip around with a disgruntled scowl, probably about to chew him out, but then they see his face. Their eyes go wide and any argument they might’ve made dashes away. Pale and cowed, they mumble something before ducking their head and hurrying off. Mott watches them go, stunned and bewildered. What was _that_? 

It takes him a moment to remember that’s how people usually react when they get in a powerful noble’s way—especially one who takes all their money no matter how poor they already are. Being an Alcott who collects heavy taxes is sure to garner that kind of response, so Mott’s not entirely sure why he expected anything less. Maybe it’s because he’s spent so many months as a nobody that he forgot what it means to be a somebody. 

This is what he’s fought so hard to return to? 

He tries to shake the encounter off as he ventures farther into the town, but the feeling lingers. It doesn’t help that the townspeople eye him warily, their sharp gazes trained on him with barely veiled disgust and hatred. Yet, whenever he meets their gaze, their eyes fall to the dusty street. They’re afraid of being singled out by him, he realizes. They’re afraid of having even more of their livelihood stripped from them. 

A sense of wrongness clings to his skin like something sticky and unpleasant. As he travels down a crooked dirt street and more eyes dart away from him, the feeling grows suffocating. Part of him wants to turn around and forget about the whole thing, but he knows he'll regret it if he does. So, he presses on. 

A few blocks in, he finds himself at the crossing of a familiar street. This is where he was when he promised the town he’d lessen their taxes, using his power as an Alcott to grant him an audience with their lord. He sees the person Lenny fed that day, sitting in the same spot and looking more dejected than ever. 

In a few short days, this part of town looks worse for wear. It’s as if the whole place has been uprooted and left for dead, and now the people are abandoned to wilt and droop and drown. 

They need money. They’re going to die at this rate. 

Mott doesn’t know why the thought strikes him so suddenly, so viscerally, but it pierces him down to the marrow and shudders through his entire being. Perhaps it’s because he knows he’s responsible for what’s happened here. 

They need money. Mott doesn’t have any of his own—but he knows someone who has an excess. 

Without hesitation, he spins back to the estate and breaks into a sprint. A few townspeople jump at his sudden motion, staring with taut hesitance and confusion. He’s aware of how bizarre he must look, racing through the streets without a clear reason, but he doesn’t have the time to explain himself. He manages to dodge a rolling cart and shout an apology over his shoulder as he barrels past, but that’s about it. 

His legs pump more vigorously than he thought possible as his heart beats at twice the speed. He can get them money. He ruined things, made a mess of everything, and nearly taxed the life out of the town, but he can make it right again. He _will_ make it right again. 

He can save them. 

Relief and excitement wash over him in waves, encouraging a burst of speed as he tears through the streets back to the estate. A wide grin stretches itself across his face and he finds himself laughing into the open air. He’s sure he’s gone mad off the euphoria coursing through him, because everything that was dull and bleak this morning is suddenly bright and full of possibility. 

Bursting through the estate doors causes a teensy commotion. Tax collectors who had just come in from an abundant haul jump at the noise, startled. One of them drops their bag and coins scatter all across the floor. 

“Pick that up!” Mott exclaims in a sing-song voice, chipper and bubbling as he races by. 

The collectors exchange looks of fright, likely wondering if he’s finally snapped. He doesn’t deign them worthy of divulging his plan to, so he simply dashes to the collector’s storage room to find what he’s looking for. Lucky for him, it’s right in the center of the room: a large, wooden cart equipped with leather straps—easy for a four-legged being to pull. 

In no time at all, he straps himself in. Some bags of money from previous collections sit in the corner of the room, so Mott hauls them into the cart. Trotting back to the hall, he walks out just as the collectors finish picking up the last coin. 

“Thanks!” He chirps, snatching the bags from them and tossing them in the back. 

The collectors stare at him as he leaves, flabbergasted. When they eventually realize he’s not coming back, one of them shouts, “Hey! Bring those back, they belong to Lord Alcott!” 

“Nope, they sure don’t!” He responds, a dumb grin still stretching across his face. “They belong to the people.” 

He can barely hear their vicious curses and complaints as he grows farther and farther from the estate. One of them threatens that Uncle Theobald will be hearing about the incident, but it only makes Mott’s smile bigger. Knowing that hell will soon rain down on him can’t dampen this mood. 

Returning to town the second time is a bit harder with a heavy cart tied to him, but he makes good time. The sun is just beginning to set when he returns to where he and Lenny announced they’d be helping. He thought it would be fitting—returning to where it all began. 

The people watch him with astonishment and confusion, but they don’t dare watch for long. Without fail, their eyes will skirt away after a few minutes, anxious about drawing unnecessary attention to themselves. But they can’t bring themselves to leave; the curiosity in their eyes is strong enough to tell Mott why. Despite maintaining cautious distance, it doesn’t take long before a crowd has gathered. 

Perfect. 

Unlatching himself from the cart, Mott gestures to the riches inside. “People of New Crestmount: I believe this belongs to you.” 

They don’t jump on the opportunity. Instead, they train their eyes on the wagon as if it’s a trap. 

Mott waits for someone to come forward, but no one does. So, he explains, “These are the dues that the Alcott tax collectors took from you. The tax rates were excessive and unethical, so I’m redistributing the wealth. It belongs to you.” 

Some of the people mutter amongst themselves, but it never gets louder than a low grumble. Their eyes flick from him to the wagon. Their bodies don’t move an inch. Are they afraid of Uncle Theobald’s wrath? The money _is_ technically stolen, even if Mott could argue that his uncle stole it in the first place. 

“Don’t worry about Lord Alcott. Any anger he has, I’ll bear it myself,” he assures, stepping aside to give them a clear path to the money. “He won’t do anything to you.” 

The suspicion doesn’t fade from their expressions. It’s like they’re bracing themselves for an attack, anticipating and holding themselves rigid. But from what? Mott glances around to see if any of the tax collectors follows him. What around here has them so high-strung? 

It takes a moment for it to dawn on him, and even longer for him to digest it. But based on the wary fear in their eyes, like a child who’s frightened of fire after being burned, he can put the pieces together: they’re scared of _him_. 

He’s the fire. He said he’d help, they trusted him, and he burned them. Thinking of it that way opens his eyes to what they must be seeing: after being hurt by Alcotts for so long, they still dared to put faith in one, and it backfired—only for that Alcott to come to them again with another promise. In that position, would Mott trust a guy like him? 

They probably think this is some back-handed trick, some ruse to jail them and snatch up their land so they have nothing left. The elation that filled him before deflates, his best efforts falling flat like a balloon meeting a needle. He thought he’d be able to fix his mistakes by returning the money, but his wrongs go much deeper than the surface issue. There’s no way he can fix what he’s ruined if they don’t trust him. 

Guilt gnaws at him. What does he do now? He’s probably the one person in the whole world they won’t accept money from, and no amount of apologizing or coaxing will convince them otherwise. There’s no one here who can vouch for his genuine efforts, so he can’t assure them with that. Is this it? Is he already out of options? Are his failings really so large that he can’t dismantle them himself? 

Biting his lip, his mind races as his worries pile up. There’s really no fixing this, is there? The weight of his failure presses down on him; his inability to clean up after himself is crushing. He’s gotten himself into some stupid, selfish messes before, but this really takes the cake. The only person he can think that would be able to untangle Mott’s disaster is—

“What’s the matter? Why are y’all looking so spooked?” 

_Him._

Mott hears his voice, somewhere deep in the grim, silent crowd. Mott’s head snaps up, heart racing, trying desperately to spot the familiar presence. He hears a whispered response to the question come from his left, and he whips his head that direction. His eyes dart from figure to figure in the dense crowd until he catches a glimpse of yellow and green. They meet eyes at the same time. 

His heart stops. 

The crowd allows Lenny to pass through with ease, as if he’s one of them. His presence doesn’t frighten them; in fact, they seem to take comfort in Lenny’s arrival. Of course they do. Why would Mott think it would be any different? Lenny’s probably already made himself acquainted with everyone in town and made them flower crowns and friendship bracelets. They must adore him. 

Mott adores him. He hates that it’s taken a near death experience and a falling out to realize it, but he does. Lenny might just be the best thing that’s ever happened to him. 

When Lenny joins Mott in the clearing, Mott pauses to take him in. Dust sticks to his legs, likely kicked up from walking in the dirty streets all day, and he looks a little tired. What really worries Mott are his wounds—they’re in worse shape than the last time he saw him. Red stains seep into the bandages at his arms, and his torso is bandaged again. He must have exerted himself too much and agitated the nearly healed wounds. As he suspected, Lenny has probably been working himself too hard, running himself ragged to try and help the city. That mission must be harder than trying to plug a leak with cotton. 

There’s a million things Mott wants to say and zero brain cells that will let him do it. All he can do is stand in stupefied silence as Lenny wordlessly sizes him up. His face is blank as he does it. Just as blank as that night. 

Mott’s heart hurts at the memory. 

Mott doesn’t know what Lenny was looking for in his slow examination. He doesn’t know if he found it, either. But then Lenny tears his eyes away from Mott to look at the people and smile. His breath hitches at the sight. How is Lenny able to smile like that while he’s dirty and bleeding? 

“I know y’all are scared,” Lenny says, his voice gentle yet assured. “But I promise, ain’t nobody here gonna hurt you.” 

The people still don’t leap toward the wagon, but their tension soothes. They pick their eyes off the ground, watching Lenny without hesitation or fear. 

Lenny approaches the wagon, brushing by Mott in the process. His legs go weak at the barest touch, and he so desperately wants Lenny to smile at him like he’s smiling at the others, but he doesn’t say a word. He simply watches Lenny work, in awe of the way he artfully untangles Mott’s mess. 

Lenny counts the coins in a small satchel in the back before calling a name Mott doesn’t recognize. When someone steps up, Lenny turns and asks her, “You said you and your family lost fifty gold pieces this week?” 

“That’s right,” the woman responds, her eyes flicking from Mott to Lenny. 

“Here,” Lenny says, placing the satchel in their hands. “This should cover it.” 

The stranger accepts the bag, not warily, but cautiously. Her gaze lands on Mott for an anxious second before returning to Lenny. Lenny smiles and nods. Comforted, she rifles through the bag for a moment, studying the contents inside. When she’s satisfied, she looks up at Lenny and beams with teary eyes. 

“Go on back home, now,” Lenny urges, waving her off. “Your mama is probably worried sick about you.” 

In a gesture that Mott can only describe as euphoric relief, the girl jumps up and down, throws her arms around Lenny in an embrace, and weeps happy tears. She releases him with a delighted laugh, racing off to return to her family with the good news. The crowd watches her skip down the street, their eyes shining with first slivers of hope. 

“Well,” Lenny starts, opening a new bag, “who’s next?” 

After that, it’s like a dam has burst. The crowd floods the street, rushing up to the wagon to bury their hands in the coins and reclaim what’s theirs. For an overwhelming moment, Mott fears the streets will devolve into a mob-like chaos, but Lenny hops into the cart and starts helping people find what they need. As if following by example, neighbors turn to each other and find what the other needs. No one takes too much or too little, and everyone looks out for the other. 

This would be a stressful endeavor if Lenny weren’t around, laughing and smiling at each person he hands money to. It would be an impossible one, too. Mott hasn’t forgotten that this whole thing was about to fall flat before Lenny came around. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget. 

Mott feels the tangled threads of his mistakes beginning to loosen. In no time at all, everyone is provided their fair portion of the wealth, and people gradually begin to return to their homes and families. Some people stick around and thank Lenny, over and over, clutching to their coins while tears roll down their faces. Mott watches from a distance, feeling his own presence like a foriegn invader. Still, he watches and he feels immense gratitude with every passing second. 

What would he do without Lenny? He’s Mott’s savior in more ways than one. These few days he’s spent without him have been some of the most miserable days of his life; seeing him again has sparked an unparalleled joy in his heart. 

Gradually, the remaining stragglers disperse. By the time everyone has left, the sun has almost fully set. Mott stares at Lenny’s back, watching the last slivers of sunlight outline him like a halo. 

Then, Lenny turns to him. His smile is gone. It’s replaced with that same, blank expression. 

He catches his breath. “Lenny,” he says. 

Lenny’s face doesn’t change. It doesn’t even flicker. Mott’s heart drops at the sight, and he suddenly feels sick to his stomach. 

Everything he wants to say culminates into one massive gag that keeps his mouth shut. Whenever he thinks he’s found something to say, he swallows it back down. It goes down rough like sandpaper. 

“I’m sorry,” is what he eventually manages to croak. 

Lenny continues to stare. He’s not moved by Mott’s words. But he does respond. 

“We need to talk.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those dreaded four words.... "we need to talk".... scary 
> 
> So, Mott has come to his senses once again! What do you think is going to happen next? What does Lenny want to talk about? The suspense is killing me! 
> 
> ...kidding. I already know what happens. But still! 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope to hear from you guys again soon!


	19. We Need to Talk

The sun has set completely, leaving darkness to swallow the beach he and Lenny stand on. The sky is starless; the moon is cloaked by dark clouds. Murky waves slip onto shore and quickly retreat, leaving tangles of slimy seaweed behind. Off the ocean, a strong, bitter gale rushes and lowers the temperature enough to make Mott shiver. He can’t imagine how cold Lenny must be. At least Mott is somewhat built for this kind of cold. Part of him worries Lenny might blow away. That part of him is small and silent compared to his worry over Lenny’s wounds, though. 

They really shouldn’t have come to the beach, his injuries could get irritated or infected by the sand—but this was Lenny’s choice. Not the inn, where they usually would be, but the beach. Mott tries not to think about why that might be. He suspects it’s insurance for Lenny, so that if this discussion goes south, he won’t have to drive Mott out of the inn. 

The thought of an impending discussion makes Mott’s hair stand on end in nervous anticipation. He hasn’t the slightest clue what direction the conversation will be headed, but he can infer that it won’t be a fun one. Why would it be? After everything that happened between them—after everything Mott ruined—why would this talk be anything but unpleasant? As his thoughts run circles around his head, the only thing he can focus on is the last thing Lenny said to him: 

_We need to talk._

That phrase is never followed by anything good. Ever. It usually comes right before a crippling split in a relationship, forever burning a bridge. Could Lenny be aiming to break ties with him? Mott tries to recall Lenny’s tone when he said it, to parse out any hidden intentions it might reveal, but all he can conjure up is Lenny’s blank face as he said it. 

Lenny’s body language doesn’t give him many clues, either. He hugs himself, but Mott can’t tell why. To close himself off? To comfort himself? Or is he just cold? His back is straight and his shoulders are poised. His feet are planted close together, not moving an inch. There’s no nervous fidget or anxious tick that Mott can see. Maybe Mott’s the only one nervous, here. 

Nervous does no justice to describe what he’s feeling. He trembles so excitedly that it feels like his bones are rattling inside him. His breath comes in short, thin gasps and his throat is always dry. He’s nearly shuffled a hole in the sand beneath his feet, he’s so high-strung. His heart beats so fast he almost feels hysterical. 

He tries to catch a glimpse of Lenny’s face to brace himself for whatever might be coming, but Lenny’s head is turned away from him, watching the waves roll in farther down the beach. With a chill, he remembers Lenny’s uncharacteristically blank expression. He doesn’t know why it unsettles him so much. He’d almost rather see Lenny furious with him than see him so devoid of emotion. 

The only sound is the rhythmic crash of the ocean. It’s not soothing. It’s tumultuous. 

Then, there’s a powerful gust of wind, and Mott instinctively moves forward to catch Lenny—but Lenny doesn’t fall. He stumbles back and runs into Mott’s chest, looking over his shoulder when they collide. His eyes are wide and surprised from his near fall. With ridiculous relief, Mott is grateful that Lenny isn’t fixing him with that empty stare. It almost makes things feel a little more normal. 

When the wind dies down, though, Mott is suddenly aware of their contact. It feels wrong, like he’s pushing a boundary. He hastily backs up. 

“Thanks,” Lenny says, for the catch or for backing away, Mott’s not sure. But that one word is enough to make his heart weep. 

He missed Lenny. The days he spent divided from him were bleak, like he’d lost a part of himself. Even if he’s known for a while how much Lenny means to him, he never realized the extent it had grown to. To him, Lenny has become irreplaceable. Too bad he realized it too late. 

“I wasn’t expecting to find you in the middle of town with a wagon full of money,” Lenny remarks, carefully neutral. Mott holds his breath and clings to every word. “But I’m glad I did. I’m glad you changed your mind and started helping folks out, again.” 

He doesn’t know what to say, so he only manages to croak, “I’m glad, too.” 

Silence. 

Between the two of them, silence has never been common. Lenny’s chatterbox nature ensured that conversation would always be flowing, and Mott has grown to enjoy quipping back or adding to Lenny’s ramblings. In the rare instances that they were quiet, the silence was comfortable and natural. 

This silence is not that. This silence has Mott shifting and scrambling for something to say. It’s uncomfortable almost to the point of pain. Mott’s incredibly thankful when Lenny speaks up again, only for the discomfort to return full force when Lenny asks a simple yet probing question. 

“Why did you?” 

Why did he do what? There’s so many turns he’s taken in one day that he can hardly keep track of them. 

Lenny looks him in the eye, elaborating, “Help them folks, I mean.” 

“Oh,” he says, intelligently. He clears his throat. “Because I… screwed up. Bad. It was eating at me and I just knew I had to fix it.” 

Lenny nods, and that damned silence returns. Mott wishes he had more to say. Lenny deserves a better explanation than that, but that’s all Mott has. His head is still spinning from the whirlwind of all of these events that he hasn’t had much time for introspection. 

“And why did you start working with your uncle?”

Lenny’s voice is cold. It makes Mott’s hair stand on end. 

“That’s,” he starts, halting as he thinks the question over, “a good question.” 

He tries to transport himself back in time. Back to when he made that stupid, fateful decision. He can see himself approaching the grandeur of his uncle’s estate with the sincerest intentions. He’d really meant to help the people, didn’t he? He’d been so convinced that he would. But then he was surrounded by the luxury of his old life and he sunk back into it as naturally as anything. The suffering of all those people went to the back of his mind, just as it has so many times before. 

“It’s because I’m selfish,” he answers, sitting exhausted on the sand. “I tried to tell you before, in Moressley Town, with the mercenaries and my bandana.” He tugs the bandana off his arm, holding it in his hands with somber remorse. Turning it over, he studies it for a moment before setting it in the sand. Looking at Lenny with weary eyes, he says, “I’m selfish. I’ve only ever done things for myself. So when my uncle gave me the opportunity to come back into the family, I took it.” 

Lenny examines him like he’s a complex equation. “I don’t think that’s true. That’s not something you would do.” 

“Well I did, didn’t I?” He snaps, bitter. Immediate guilt gnaws at him for getting short with Lenny. Turning his head to the dark ocean, he says, “You won’t believe I’m selfish because you don’t want to believe it, but I am. I _am_. I’ve always made the wrong choices; I’ve always disappointed everyone in my life. It was only a matter of time before I disappointed you too.” 

Another moment of dreadful silence falls over them, and Lenny taps his hands together. It’s the first anxious tick Mott has seen from him all night. 

After some time, Lenny settles down in the sand beside him. They both gaze out at the ocean. 

“There’s a difference between making a selfish choice and being a selfish person,” Lenny states, absentmindedly drawing swirls in the sand. “You made a selfish choice. I won’t argue against that or try to excuse it. What you _did_ was selfish—but that doesn’t make _you_ selfish.” 

Mott closes his eyes. “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve never been selfish a day in your life.” 

When he opens his eyes, he sees Lenny giving him a bewildered if not unimpressed look. “I left my impoverished family behind to travel.” 

“That’s different—”

“I’m not some saint. Everyone makes selfish choices, Mott. That don’t make everyone inherently selfish.” 

Mott keeps his mouth shut and returns his attention to the ocean. The wind has picked up, and the waves crash with mighty vigor. There could be a storm looming on the horizon. 

“Besides,” Lenny adds, crossing his legs, “I don’t think you did what you did simply for self-gain.” 

Mott scoffs. “Then what did I do it for, if you’ve got me so figured out?” 

Lenny throws him an annoyed look. Then, inexplicably, it softens. “I think you were scared.” 

“Scared?” Mott nearly blurts. A laugh is startled out of him. “Scared of what?” 

“You’ve changed a lot since we started our journey. Your temperament, your actions, your goals—they’re all different, now. You’re turning into a new person, and that can be scary. I think you went to your uncle because he made you feel like your old self again. He made you feel less afraid.” 

He mulls it over. Lenny’s not entirely wrong. For some time, now, Mott has had no motivation. He doesn’t know why he does what he does anymore, and it’s unnerving. Could he have returned to his uncle to try and compensate for it? 

“Maybe,” he allows, drawing circles in the sand. “Maybe.” 

Lenny watches him for a while, long enough that Mott has collected a small army of sand circles. Then, he says, “Y’know you could’ve just talked to me, right? You could’ve told me you were scared. I would’ve listened.” 

Mott’s finger pauses in the sand, his circle half complete. Drawing his hand away from it, he says nothing. How could he have told Lenny? Then he’d know how weak and inadequate he really is. Mott wouldn’t be able to live with the shame of that. Would Lenny even want to stick around him if he knew how pathetic he was? 

That’s assuming Lenny doesn’t already have an idea. If Mott’s constant failures haven’t clued him in, his latest failure to clean up his own mess probably has. It’s not like it’s exactly a secret. His inadequacy is what got him kicked out of his family in the first place. His failures were the catalyst for this doomed quest. 

“Why didn’t you just talk to me?” Lenny asks, his voice broken and small. “I share my feelings with you all the time. Why don’t you share with me?” 

Mott swallows. He looks down at the sand, tapping his fingers against his incomplete circle. 

He knows Lenny is waiting for an answer, but he doesn’t have one to give. Lenny stares at him, waiting, his expression slowly shifting from hurt to that unbearable blankness. The seconds drag on in painful increments, like needles burying themselves down to his bone. With every moment that passes, he becomes more and more aware of the hole he’s digging himself into by not answering. Yet, he can’t bring himself to do it. 

“Have I been overstating our importance to each other? Is that it?” Lenny wonders, his voice weary. He pokes a hand in the sand near Mott’s, but doesn’t move. “Did I confuse us for something we’re not?” 

When Mott looks up to Lenny’s face, he sees his eyes are just as tired as his tone. The sight makes his heart lurch. 

“What are you talking about?” Mott says, feeling a faint sense of panic rise up in him. 

“I’m not dumb. I know you didn’t want me tagging along at first,” he responds, absentmindedly drawing a swirl in the sand. “But as time went on, it felt like maybe you’d gotten over it, and I thought we were friends. Family, even.” Lenny looks up at him, his eyes void of emotion. “But that’s not how it is, is it?” 

The simmering panic in him begins to boil over, bubbling and pouring over with frantic urgency.

“It feels like you don’t care about me half as much as I care about you. I share everything with you but you share nothing; I try to give you the space to open up on your own time but you never do.” Lenny looks away, blinking a few times. Trembling moonlight reflects from the tears pooling in his eyes. “I could never understand it, but now I think I do. You never wanted me around, did you?” 

The panic bursts like dam, and Mott has to physically restrain himself from jumping up and shouting denials. His head is so cluttered and frazzled that he’d look like a raving lunatic if he tried to articulate everything—but there’s so much he wants to say. His impulse is to deny all of it, to explain that he’s never wanted to be so close to another person, but what good would that do? It’s not like he has much evidence to back it up. All he’d be able to do is promise and swear and vow that he means it, but after the events with his uncle, he knows his promises mean shit. 

But he means it. He means it more than he’s meant anything in all his life. These few months with Lenny have been some of the best, some of the worst, and some of the most enlightening months of his life. They’ve been thrilling and terrifying, delightful and miserable, victorious and devastating. Never before has his life been so rich with possibility, so fraught with tension. Living in an ivory tower all his life dulled his perspective and understanding of his surroundings. It closed the universe down to a bubble that existed solely for him. It killed the nuance of the world. It’s because of this journey—because of _Lenny_ —that he’s been able to truly open his eyes for the first time.

He wishes he had the words to convey it all. What he’d give for a moment, for the ability to stop time, just so he could write down everything he’s feeling. He’d wrangle in his delirious, rambling thoughts and iron them out into something genuine, something contrite, and present them to Lenny only when they’re perfect. Because Lenny deserves perfect, and he’s far from it. 

“That’s not true,” Mott pathetically blurts, instead. He winces at how weak his own denial sounds. 

Clearly, it’s not enough to convince Lenny. “Do you even care about me?” 

Mott’s eyes flick down to Lenny’s bandages instinctively. They’re so close to the sand, they shouldn’t be that close, what if they get infected? 

He swallows anxiously. “Yes.” 

“Then why don’t you _talk_ to me?” Lenny demands, irritated. “Even now, you’re holding back on me!”

Mott doesn’t know what to say. 

“Are you ashamed of me?” 

“No.” 

“Are you upset that you don’t have your fancy rich friends anymore; are you upset that you’re stuck with me?” 

“ _No_.” 

“Are you embarrassed that you have to mingle with some dumb country bumpkin?” 

“No!” Mott shouts, jumping to his feet in a blind fit of rage. “I’m embarrassed by _myself_!” 

Pure, unfiltered anger channels into his water abilities, rushing out from him and causing a spray to shoot out from the ocean. Culminating into a large wave, it nearly threatens to crash down on them—but he unsheathes his scallop shell and slashes through it. With the flow of the wave disrupted, the water sprinkles harmlessly around them. Mott hangs his head, feeling the water rain down on him as it spatters into the sand. 

When he faces Lenny, he’s met with wide eyes and a look of surprise. He’s still sitting in the sand, his limbs splayed out as droplets trickle down his face. 

“I’m ashamed of myself,” Mott says, his voice a broken whisper. “I fail at everything I do; I can’t even fix my own mistakes.” A bitter laugh escapes him. “Hell, I don’t even know what I want to do with my life or who I am anymore. I have no direction. I’m just a—worthless, useless, no-good waste of time.” 

Silence. 

Too late, it occurs to Mott that he just brought about the very thing he’d been trying to avoid—revealing just how weak he truly is. He wishes that he could take every word back and shove it down, keep it hidden. The pain of being seen, truly seen, is too much to bear. He looks away from Lenny, unable to stand against the scrutiny of his gaze. 

“You ain’t useless,” Lenny says, softly. “How can you think you’re useless when you and I just helped all those townsfolk?” 

Lenny looks out at the ocean before returning his eyes to Mott, dusting the sand off himself. 

“How can you be useless,” he continues, “when you help people everywhere you go?” 

“It’s not enough,” Mott argues, glaring down at the sand. The incomplete circle he’d drawn stares back at him. “I have no motivation.” 

“That’s okay,” Lenny assures, his voice soft. Reaching a hand out, he draws a swirl next to Mott’s half-circle. “You don’t have to know what your motives are, right now. It’s okay to just exist and do your best.” 

“But doesn’t that make me directionless?” He asks, almost pleading. “Are you really willing to stick around someone who’s going on a suicide mission for no reason?” 

“Sure,” Lenny says with a shrug. “Even if you don’t got a reason for it, I got reasons of my own for sticking around.” 

Mott recalls what Lenny told him, back in Moressley Town: he wanted to travel and see the world. “You can find someone else to travel with, you know. There’s a million people you could see the world with.” 

“Who said that’s my reason for sticking around?” 

For a moment, Mott is thrown off guard. “...You did.” 

“It _was_ my reason, at first. But motives change,” he points out, still drawing in the sand. “I kinda think you’re going through a change in motivations, too, and you don’t know what to do with it. That’s okay. I was pretty confused when my goals changed, too.” 

But… if seeing the world isn’t his goal anymore… 

“Then why are you doing this?” Mott asks, lost. “Why stick around?” 

Lenny etches a curve in the sand, connecting his swirl to Mott’s incomplete circle. 

“Because,” he responds, “I wanna be with you.” 

Something inside of Mott breaks. It splinters and shatters in a billion pieces, smashing apart. It hurts like hell, but it’s a good break, he thinks. It hurts like hell and it stings in his eyes, and before he knows it, tears are rolling down his face. 

“Can you forgive me?” He sobs, his throat sore and his lungs tight. “Can you forgive me for screwing all of this up so bad?” 

Lenny stands, picking up Mott’s discarded bandana and walking over to him. Mott watches with bated breath as Lenny ties the bandana back onto his arm, patting it when he’s satisfied. Then, he wraps his arms around Mott’s neck. 

“I already have, silly,” Lenny whispers, gently. 

Mott hangs his head and returns the embrace, gripping him like a lifeline. 

“Let’s be a team again.” 

Mott weeps. 

Even if Mott feels like floating on air after their reunion, he’s grounded enough to know their work here in New Crestmount City isn’t finished. That’s why they’ve arrived on the doorstep of Uncle Theobald’s estate in the dead of night, rapping impatiently at the door. His uncle answers the door, disgruntled and irate. 

“Do you know what time it is?” His uncle demands, ill-tempered. “And where is my money, Montgomery? I know you took it!” 

“Yeah, I did,” Mott answers with a casual shrug. “But it wasn’t really yours in the first place.” 

“I beg your pardon? I made that money through honest, hard work—” 

“No, you didn’t, but that’s a different conversation,” Mott interrupts. 

“We’re here to ask you to lower your taxes,” Lenny finishes, folding his arms. 

Uncle Theobald scoffs. “And why would I do something like that?” 

“Because,” Mott says, “you probably don’t want my father finding out you stole New Crestmount City from him.” 

His uncle’s face falls, and his eyes dart frantically between them. “I haven’t the slightest clue what you’re talking about.” 

“All existing properties and other such real estate shall henceforth belong to Lennox Alcott,” Mott recites, recalling the words from his grandfather’s will. His uncle’s eyes widen comically large. “Last time I checked, New Crestmount was classified under properties and other such real estate. And last time I checked, your name wasn’t Lennox.” 

“There was a codicil,” Uncle Theobald blurts, pathetically. 

“We both know my grandfather’s handwriting didn’t look like the shit on that codicil.” 

Uncle Theobald grits his teeth. Mott and Lenny exchange a glance, and Lenny smirks. Mott can’t help but do the same. 

“Name your rate,” his uncle seethes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! Reunions! :') 
> 
> What do you think? Do you think Mott has earned Lenny's forgiveness? Or is there still more work to be done? 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. See you next week!


	20. Worthless, Useless, No-Good Waste of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Soon! 
> 
> For today's chapter, an old friend is making an appearance... I wonder who...?

After spending so long in New Crestmount City, Mott was eager to hit the road again. Leaving that city felt like a breath of fresh air, like leaving behind a burden he didn’t know he had. He hopes he never has to go back. 

They made a straight path to Stawford Town, following the lead that that curator put them on. It took about a day and a half to get here, and now that they’ve made it, Mott is taking time to relax and nurse his sore feet before they get back to work. Lenny is also taking the time to gingerly remove his bandages for the final time. From here on out, he shouldn’t need them anymore. Mott wishes he’d wear them one day more, just in case. Luckily, the wounds aren’t red anymore, but pale scars have taken their place. Mott can’t help but feel responsible for that. If he’d been stronger, Lenny wouldn’t have gotten hurt. 

Then again, if he’d been a better person in general, Lenny wouldn’t have been put through so much in the first place. So, he guesses it’s not much of a surprise that Lenny got hurt because of him. 

Lenny stretches, a bright smile dancing on his face. “Finally! Those things were getting awfully stuffy. When are we gonna head out to the town?”

They’d agreed to go searching for the professor as soon as possible. If they can get any scrap of information on Zekrom, even if it’s a mere sliver, Mott will be able to feel like they’re doing something productive. For so long, he’s felt that they’ve been aimlessly chasing with a blindfold on. Like they're missing the whole picture. With a little more information, they might be able to see a little more of the picture.

Contemplating this, Mott removes the slip of paper from the curator from his bag to examine it. 

_Professor Hallowood, Stawford Town, Bridge St._

He doesn’t know much about the layout of this town, so he doesn’t know where Bridge Street would be. He’s never visited Stawford Town, and even though he’s heard of it extensively, it’s not enough for him to have even the foggiest clue of the local geography. The first thing they’re going to need to do today is get their hands on a map. 

“We oughta go out and ask for directions,” Lenny remarks, standing and moving his arms around freely. 

Mott tosses a satchel over his back. “No, let’s just get a map.” 

“I bet we could ask the innkeeper and she’d be able to point us the right way.” 

“I bet she could just as easily point us to a map.” 

Lenny scoffs. “Why don’t you like asking for directions?” 

“Because I can read a map just fine, thank you!” 

Their light bickering carries them down to the lobby of the inn, where one of the maids overhears their conversation and asks if they’d like help with directions. Mott says ‘no’ just as Lenny says ‘yes.’ The girl looks confused for only a moment before she decides to give them directions, anyway. A devious, triumphant smile tugs onto Lenny’s face. Mott huffs. 

Turns out, Bridge Street isn’t that hard to find. It is, in reference to its namesake, right beside the bridge in town, running parallel to the wide canal that splits the town into two parts. The inn is on one side of this divide whereas the street is on the other, so all they really have to do is travel across the bridge and they'll be right on the street. Luckily, the bridge is visible from the inn, so it won’t be a terribly long walk. 

Her directions are clear enough that they can confidently set out without even glancing at a map, but that doesn’t mean Mott’s happy about it. He’s feeling a bit like dead weight, over here. At least let him navigate! 

As they walk along the path toward Bridge Street, Lenny spins around with a smile and a gasp to soak it all in. Mott can’t say he blames him; the town is gorgeous. The people here pride themselves on innovation and creativity, and it shows in their architecture. Shining cobblestone streets weave through symmetrical rows of pristine, expertly-crafted buildings. Decorated arches crest overhead every few blocks, supporting intricate aqueduct structures that work against gravity with pumps and other state of the art tools to combat the drag of the hill that angles toward the canal. Gardens adorn every rooftop, fed the occasional drop from the aqueducts but mostly reliant on natural rain to water their crops. Along the sidewalks, painted murals brighten the town. Machinery, vegetation, and art intertwine together in this city, forming a place unlike anything Mott has ever seen. It’s like a utopia. 

Based on what he’s seen so far, it’s a perfect city in more than just appearance: he has yet to see a single beggar or impoverished citizen. Everyone seems to be coexisting in a fair, collaborative community rather than an abyss of wealth disparity. No one is excessively rich; no one is excessively poor. It’s harmonious. 

As wonderful as this all is, upon reaching Bridge Street, they are confronted with an unforeseen complication: they have no idea where this professor lives. Other than the town and street name, the curator didn’t provide them with any other address. The professor could live in any of the houses on this street, and based on how long the road stretches and how many buildings are crammed together, there are… a lot of options to choose from. 

Mott is just about to sigh with preemptive exhaustion and resign himself to the mortifying ordeal of going door to door and knocking when he hears a booming voice shout, “Little Lenny!” 

A gasp escapes Lenny before they even turn around. But as soon as they do, they’re met with a familiar, stony face. 

“ _Oh no_ ,” he whispers under his breath.

“Hilda!” Lenny cries, throwing his arms in the air and racing to her. 

Hilda’s face is warm despite its jagged edges, and she even allows a low laugh when Lenny leaps to hug her neck. She nuzzles her head down to meet his embrace, rumbling pleasantly. With a burst of excitement, Lenny squeezes her as tight as he possibly can, which to her probably feels like nothing. Mott worries that Hilda might try to return the favor and accidentally kill Lenny on the spot. Fortunately, she doesn’t. Instead, she lets him down, regarding him happily. 

“It’s been too long, Little Lenny,” she proclaims, fondly. She still has the pink bow Lenny made for her, tied at the base of a sharp protrusion on the top of her head. A satchel is on her back, polished and new. There’s some fabric and needles poking out of it. “I am happy. You are here, and that is good.” 

“Shucks, I’m happy too!” Lenny exclaims, nearly vibrating in place. “I had no idea you lived here; if I’d known, I’d have raced here straight away!” 

She laughs, a deep, thunderous sound, and leans her forehead against his, closing her eyes. Lenny beams and stands on his tip toes, basking in the affection. Mott shakes off his nerves. Cautiously, like approaching a feral animal, he joins the scene. 

“Hey… hey, Hilda,” he says, trying to keep his voice from cracking anxiously. He fails. She opens her eyes, turning her head slowly toward him. Almost menacingly. He swallows. Clearing his throat, he asks, “How’ve you been?” 

Silence. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t even blink. All she does is stare at him in hardened silence, her eyes as sharp as knives. 

Mott sweats a little. 

Without warning, a rancorous laugh roars out of her. She throws her head back, booming at the sky. Mott would like to say it doesn’t scare him as much as it does. 

“Look at this!” She nearly bellows, slamming her shoulder against his. Mott winces. “Little Bastard has grown into Big Bastard!” 

“Thanks, Hilda,” he drawls. Tenderly rubbing his arm, he can’t help the grin that tugs on his face. “It’s nice to see you too.” 

Naturally, Lenny wastes no time rattling off every detail of their lives the past few months she’s been separated from them. He lists the friends they’ve made, the adventures they’ve had, and everything in between. Thankfully, he leaves out certain… recent events, almost entirely glossing over their chapter in New Crestmount City. Mott feels entirely indebted to him all over again.

Then comes Hilda’s question: “Why have you come here?” 

Mott only vaguely wonders why she has to phrase everything like a threat before Lenny responds. “We’re looking for a professor who might be able to help us learn more about Zekrom. Ooh, maybe you know them, Hilda!” 

Hilda tilts her head to the side. “Probably. My wife works with many professors.” 

“That’s perfect! I’m awfully glad we found you, for more than one reason now!” Lenny bubbles enthusiastically, shuffling through Mott’s bags to look for the paper they were given. When he rummages it out, he holds it in front of Hilda. “Sound familiar?” 

Hilda’s eyes widen. Then, they narrow. They lock onto Lenny and Mott, and this time, Mott is sure there’s an implicit threat behind them. Although, it doesn’t seem to be directed at them. 

“Who gave you this,” she demands rather than asks. 

Lenny, proving he has the self-preservation instincts of a brick, responds just as cheerfully as before. “The curator of the museum in Roselake City.” 

Hilda nods, grim. “The one who died.” 

“You knew her?” Mott asks, somewhat hesitant. 

“Yes. She died because she knew too much,” Hilda declares, her voice quiet. Her eyes dart back and forth. “She’s not the only expert on Zekrom who’s died recently.” 

Mott’s eyes widen. “No kidding?” 

“It’s true,” Hilda says with a reluctance he can’t place. “Experts are in danger. They need to be protected. Word of their research cannot get out. You understand this?” 

“Of course,” Lenny agrees, nodding seriously. 

Hilda sizes them up, taut. “I take you to this professor. You will promise me not to speak of her. Yes?” 

“We promise,” Mott vows, looking her straight in the eyes. That seems to be enough for her, as she nods curtly and turns to show them the way. 

“Who is this professor, anyways?” Lenny whispers, close to Hilda’s side. 

“Professor Anastasia Hallowood,” she says, her tone grave, “my wife.”

Meeting Anastasia again is just as unnerving as it was the first time. Hilda is intimidating, sure, but Anastasia is downright _scary_. Mott still thinks she should be wearing an eyepatch instead of the pink bow wrapped around her head. She’s at least wearing one in spirit, or something. Whenever she turns her cold eyes on to him, he worries she’s slowly drilling and icicle into his flesh. 

Could she kill him? He feels like she could. 

“These are your friends, my love?” She asks Hilda, her apathetic gaze sweeping over the two of them as if they’re mere specks of dust on a shelf. Hilda nods while Anastaisa seems entirely unimpressed. “The ones with the death wish?” 

Mott gulps. He knows she’s referring to their quest of chasing Zekrom, but it feels like she’s implying that the mere offense of talking to her is a death wish. It seems as though any wrong move might strike her ire and cause him a world of pain. This impression doesn’t seem to be striking Lenny, though, as he gawks at the colorful tablecloth draped over the table in the center of the room. 

“Hilda, did you make this?” Lenny asks in amazement. Somewhat bashful, Hilda nods. He beams. “That’s incredible! You’ve gotten awfully good at this craft business since I last saw you.” 

She gives another nod. “I practiced what you taught me. I am good. I sell my crafts in the town square with the other merchants.” 

Lenny and Hilda chat about cloth and fabric while Anastasia watches their interaction with unsettlingly keen attention. Her disquieting demeanor makes Hilda look cuddly in comparison. Especially when Hilda listens to Lenny ramble on about cotton with a smile in her eyes. 

His anxiety in her presence is dulled somewhat by the jovial atmosphere. After a few minutes of listening to Lenny and Hilda catch up, Mott can’t help but smile. Despite his apprehensions about Hilda in the beginning, she’s turned out to be a pretty cool lady. He’ll admit that he missed her from time to time after she left them. Of course, he’ll never _tell_ her that. 

“You should tell her sometime,” Anastasia says to him, quiet. She talks lowly enough to not be heard over Lenny’s excessive chatter, giving her and Mott a semblance of privacy, but Mott’s heart still stutters with shock. Whether the surprise comes from being addressed or from her seemingly hearing his thoughts, he’s not sure. Her eyes slide to him, cool and empty. “It would please her to hear that you missed her just as she missed you.” 

She can read minds?

“Somewhat,” she answers. 

Mott frowns, wishing she would quit. 

“Apologies. It’s a rude habit,” she confesses, brushing the topic aside. “I will stop now.” 

Mott narrows his eyes doubtfully. 

“I have stopped,” she assures in the least convincing display he’s ever seen. It’s like she’s not even trying to lie. “Truly,” she monotones. 

Mott proceeds to fill his brain with the most annoyingly catchy song he can muster. 

A low curse escapes Anastasia, and she shakes her head and looks away from him. A burst of triumph swells in his chest, proud at successfully ousting her. Although it ended up being a bit of a round-about victory, as now he’s got the song stuck in his head, too… 

Dammit. 

“Fine. I am no longer listening in,” she says, and this time, he actually believes her. With a scrutinizing gaze, she runs her eyes over him slowly. “I only want to know why you are here.” 

“It’s like we told Hilda,” he responds, “we want to stop Zekrom, and that took us to you.” 

“Yes. My colleague in Roselake recommended you find me, it seems. She had sent many people my way before her death. Most of them were not worth trusting.” 

Mott has a feeling that last part is the most important thing to glean from what she’s saying. He finds his tone shifting to something softer and more comforting. “I understand that you have a lot to be afraid of right now. Hilda has told me that experts such as yourself have been targeted. Do you know by who?” 

Anastasia shakes her head, still sizing him up. Although standing still under the meticulous dissection of her gaze is torture, he does it. If that’s what it takes to make her feel better and help them find a way to beat Zekrom, he’ll do it. But whatever she’s looking for in him, she must not find it, because her eyes meet his and the tension in her body does not lower. 

“I have no idea who may be targeting my colleagues. All I know is that they do not want information about Zekrom being released to the public. It is likely that whoever is after us is also linked to Zekrom’s mysterious reawakening.” 

Mott nods in agreement. It would make sense that whoever is behind Zekrom’s rampage is also attempting to silence anyone who might be able to stop that destruction. 

Lenny and Hilda’s conversation has somehow dragged them into the kitchen, where they’ve begun to mix ingredients together for what looks like some sort of bread. He supposes it’s not much of a surprise that they’d end up baking—with Lenny’s love for cooking and Hilda’s love for baking, it’s hard to say who badgered who into the kitchen. 

Before Mott can suggest they join the two of them so that he’s not alone with the scariest woman in the world, the door bursts open and slams into the wall. Mott turns, expecting some towering, enraged thug, only to come face to face with empty air. That is, until he looks down. 

Way, way down. 

On the welcome mat, aggressively scuffing their feet, is a little axew. They practically stomp the mud off their stubby legs and throw the door back into place before taking a huge gulp of air and bellowing, “MOM! MAMA! I’M HOME!” 

The tubby little dragon turns to storm into the house, only to see Mott’s legs. They look up. Mott looks down. They continue to look up. 

“MOM! MAMA!” Mott winces as his eardrums throb. “THERE’S A CREEPY MAN IN OUR HOUSE!” 

“He’s a guest, Amari,” Anastasia says, her voice now a soothing balm rather than a chilling force. “Please use your inside voice.” 

“OKAY MOM! SORRY!” 

Amari waddles past them without a care in the world before looking back up and Mott and barking, “SORRY!” and continuing on their merry way. Mott rubs over an ear and watches them disappear into the kitchen. 

“Whoever is interested in silencing experts will inevitably come for me,” Anastasia continues, as if there’d never been an interruption in their conversation. Anastasia turns her head toward the kitchen, gazing fondly as Hilda shows Amari how to knead dough. “You understand why I cannot let that happen, don’t you?” 

Lenny’s loud, inelegant laugh steals Mott’s attention, and his gaze instinctively flicks over. There’s a smile on his face and flour on his forehead. 

“I understand,” he says. 

She regards him carefully for another moment before her tension fades and she proclaims, “You do.” 

He has no idea what convinced her to let her guard down, but he’s glad she did. The sharp iciness in her eyes melts into something calmer and more inviting. Without a word, she hovers away from him, drifting down the hall. When she turns and sees that he’s not following, she silently gestures him along before vanishing around the corner. 

He doesn’t waste time. He follows her into the hall, curious to see family portraits on the wall. Anastasia, Hilda, and Amari sit or stand in various poses, drawn or painted in domestic splendor. Never in a million years did he think he’d describe neither Hilda nor Anastasia as ‘warm,’ but that’s the only thought that comes to mind when he sees these pictures. 

Eventually, at the end of the small hall, she leads him into a tucked away room that’s filled with books. Maps and framed fragments of ancient parchment line the walls, heavily centered around a massive oak desk pressed against a wide window. Mott has seen many studies in his lifetime, but none of them can compare to the sheer intellect he senses in this room. Just by walking in and smelling the faint scent of old books, he can imagine Anastasia bent over her desk for hours, pouring over documents and artifacts. 

She approaches a bookcase, shuffling through a few texts before she finds what she’s looking for. She pulls out a red, leather-bound book embroidered in gold along the spine. Signs of regular wear of age dot along the cover, and it crackles slightly when she opens it. Carefully placing it on the desk, she flips the stiff pages to the table of contents, perusing it. Mott watches over her shoulder from a distance, refusing to come too close without explicit permission. 

After some time of flipping through pages, she lands on one. Beckoning him over, she drifts to the side so he can take a closer look. When he looks down, he has no idea what he’s looking at. But it dawns on him an instant later. 

“This is an artist’s interpretation of Zekrom’s stone,” she explains, nodding to the image drawn on the page. Mott rakes his eyes over it like he may never see it again, committing each piece to memory: the color, like black obsidian; the perfect smoothness, as smooth as a polished gem; and the intricate engravings around the circumference, depicting a raging thunderstorm. “The interpretation is based on decades of legendary scholarship. Most scholars agree on this interpretation. There’s only one problem.” 

Mott stares at the image a moment longer, somewhat thrown for a loop at the sudden reveal, because it’s _right there_. This stone that he’s been searching for, this stone that could end everything—it’s _right there_. Even if it’s just an image, the sight of it at all is disorienting. It takes him a long minute to process everything she said. But when he finally does, his head snaps toward her and he repeats, “A problem?” 

She nods. “No one knows how big it is.” 

Mott blinks, allowing himself to digest what she’s telling him. “No one knows how… big it is? Why is that a problem?” 

“It might not be,” she shrugs, returning her gaze to the picture. “It could be as big as you and me. It could be bigger than this apartment. Or—” she turns to him, her expression grave “—it could be as small as a pebble.” 

Now the problem dawns on Mott. If the stone is incredibly, terribly small, and Mott has the whole, wide-open world to scour for it… 

“Oh,” he sighs, running a hand down his face. “That _is_ a problem.” 

She nods in agreement. “Indeed.” 

They stay there in silence for a long minute, both studying the page as if it will provide them some brand new insight. Nothing sticks out to him. It’s not like he’s an expert on this stuff, anyway. If anyone were to have a sudden epiphany just by staring at a picture, it would be her. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like she’s having one anytime soon. 

After some time, she exhales heavily and shuts the book. Then, unexpectedly, she thrusts it into his arms. 

“Here,” she states while he fumbles with it. “You may borrow it for as long as you need. There are several passages describing the history of the stone and it’s hypothetical whereabouts. Those may be of use to you.” 

For a second, he’s too tongue-tied to speak. But he manages to gather his wits and respond. “Thank you. I’ll take good care of it.” 

She nods. “I’ve looked into it extensively, myself. I only stopped when the curator in Roselake passed. After her death, I could no longer dig into such information without fear of what may happen to my family as a consequence. But I know enough to get you started. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask.” 

“Certainly,” he replies, studying the book in his hands before meeting her gaze. “Thank you again. I know this couldn’t have been easy.” 

She inclines her head but doesn’t speak more on the subject. “Please feel free to stay in our guest room.” 

“Oh, that’s not necessary—” 

“Nonsense. You are welcome as friends. You may stay as long as needed.” 

Mott is struck with the realization that once he gets past her cold exterior, Anastasia is actually a pretty chill lady. She’s a lot like Hilda, in that way. Underneath all their tough layers, they’re rather friendly and easy to get along with. If only they’d let those walls down a little sooner so that Mott wouldn’t have felt the urge to pass out at their every interaction. Or, maybe _he’s_ the problem, since Lenny has always seemed to get along with them just fine. 

Yeah, that’s probably it. 

“Thank you,” he says, struck by how incapable he is to properly express how genuine his gratitude truly is. He puts the book in his satchel with ginger cautiousness. “That means a lot.” 

She accepts his inadequate appreciation with grace, floating out of the study to show him to the guest room and other areas. As he follows along, he wracks his brain trying to come up with a way to properly thank her—to no avail. He spends the rest of the home tour feeling utterly useless. 

They return to the kitchen just as Hilda, Lenny, and Amari are wrapping up their baking. Amari’s loud yelling has since quieted down, their eyes drooping open and closed with sleepy slowness. By the time the bread is set to bake overnight, Amari is fast asleep on Hilda’s back, snoring as loud as they shout. Mott wonders how their mothers get any sleep at night. 

The four of them chat for a few hours, quiet enough to not disturb Amari’s slumber. Mott finds himself thoroughly enjoying the conversation no matter what twists or turns it takes. It’s been a long time since he’s talked with some good friends, other than Lenny of course. Having a nice talk like this is refreshing in it’s own way. 

After a while, Lenny stretches and yawns, looking about ready to flop over and start snoring himself. Mott nudges him back awake, startling him to his senses. That’s about when they all decide they should probably head to bed. 

Hilda and Anastasia bid them goodnight, taking Amari to their room to put them to bed. Mott shows Lenny to the guest room, walking slow enough so that Lenny can lean against him. When they get to the room, Lenny wastes no time falling onto the bed. 

Mott cracks a grin. “Tired?” 

Lenny groans into the pillows in response. 

He can’t help the light laugh that escapes him as he blows out the candlelight, leaving only the one at a nearby desk burning. Tugging a blanket over Lenny, still wary of wounds that are no longer there, he leaves him to sleep while he goes to stand at the desk. Reaching into his satchel, he pulls out the text Anastasia lent him. He runs his eyes over the cover for a long moment, soaking it all in before he opens the book. 

With information on the stone now in his possession, Mott wants to extract everything he can from the book as soon as possible. He’s sick of being on an aimless quest—especially a quest that he’s not even sure _why_ he’s set on completing anymore—and he wants to bring some clarity to it all. He wants to see an end to this mission that nearly killed Lenny. If he has a chance to discover something new, he’s going to leap on it. Even if it takes him all night. 

It’s the least he could do, after everything he’s done. 

Opening to the table of contents, he peruses the chapters. There’s… a lot. The book is thick, he shouldn’t have expected anything less, but he’s still slightly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of contents stuffed between the pages. One-hundred and seventeen chapters seems like overkill, doesn’t it? 

It doesn’t matter. He’ll dedicate all his time and energy to this book and get through it. He’ll read ten chapters a day so that he can finish in a little over a week. That will give him time to review with Anastasia and fully understand the content before he dives back into the hone in on key passages. It’ll be intense, there’s no question of that, but he’ll just have to endure it. Anastasia has given him an opportunity to make himself useful. He’s not going to squander it. 

The first chapter is titled _What is Zekrom’s Stone? A Brief Synopsis on the Existence of a Legendary Stone._ Much like the title, the chapter is very much _not_ brief. Mott stifles a sigh, flipping through over fifty pages of academic jargon. He braces himself to read ten chapters before going to bed tonight, turning to chapter one and starting to read. 

...He gets about two paragraphs in before his mind wanders off the page. 

Snapping his attention back, he forces himself to reread those two paragraphs to remind himself what he just read before trying to tackle the third paragraph. Four sentences in, he’s convinced this paragraph is a misprint. How the heck did the author jump from point A to point B so fast? This makes no sense! 

He doesn’t know how many hours pass as he painstakingly, agonizingly moves from one page to the next. All he knows is that it costs him an exhausting amount of brainpower and willpower. Eventually, it grows so taxing that he’s worrying he’s forgetting how to read. 

He narrows his eyes at the page in front of him and spends a good ten minutes trying to decipher the language he should already know before a soft rustling of sheets disturbs him. From behind him, in the bed, Lenny drowsily calls, “Mott? What are you still doing up?” 

Glaring intently at the word ‘the’ at the beginning of the next sentence, in the midst of trying to determine whether or not it’s a real word, he answers, “Reading.” 

“It’s late.” Sure enough, when Mott glances outside the window, the moon is high in the sky. “Come to bed.” 

Mott opens the window a crack, hoping the fresh air might invigorate him or give him some brain cells. All it does is flicker the candle and make the incoherent words dance around on the page. “In a minute.” 

Other than the gentle whispering of the breeze, there is no sound in the room. It doesn’t help him focus. Nothing helps him focus. How can he focus on something so incomprehensible? But after a minute, the sound of the bedsheets moving and the floorboards creaking distracts him from his attempts at not being distracted. Lenny comes over, leaning against him and yawning. 

“What are you reading?” He wonders, squinting at the book like it’s hurting his eyes. 

Mott exhales heavily, almost like a sigh. “It’s a book Anastasia lent me. It has information on Zekrom’s stone.”

“Have you found anything interesting?” 

How is he supposed to tell Lenny that he’s found nothing? That he hasn’t even finished the first chapter? That he’s already forgotten everything he’s read? That he hasn’t accomplished a single thing? 

He can’t tell him that. After all he’s put Lenny through, he can’t add ‘being a useless partner’ on top of it. 

Clenching his jaw, he turns the page. “I’m getting there.” 

Lenny nods, resting his head on his. Mott’s not sure if he’s watching Mott read or if he’s falling asleep again. He considers nudging Lenny back to bed before Lenny pipes up. 

“This is supposed to be read?” He asks, incredulous. “How’s anyone in their right mind gonna understand a lick of this?” 

Mott stares at a page, tapping his fingers against it. “It’s old academic prose. Very, very old.” 

“I mean, I know I’m not the best at reading, but those don’t even look like words to me,” he argues, bending down to take a closer look. “Sheesh. I sure am lucky to have you around to translate this nonsense for me.” 

Mott swallows the lump in his throat. He’s read plenty of academic pieces in his time, thrust onto him by tutor after tutor, but this text is a beast unlike anything he’s ever picked apart. Of course the one time Lenny needs him to pull through with something like this, he can’t. 

No. No way. He can’t let Lenny down, not again. 

He picks up the book, preparing to go somewhere else with it and maybe find a spark of inspiration, only for his weary legs to trip over themselves and for the book to go flying out of his hands and out the window. 

“Uh-oh,” Lenny says as Mott hits the ground. 

Sprawled out on the hard, wooden floor, Mott stares at the far wall in silent shock. Did he seriously just throw the book out the window?! 

Scrambling to his feet, he races to the window and throws his head out in a desperate search. Scanning the ground, he finds it soon enough—lying face down and open in a mud puddle. 

The book that was going to bring an end to all this, and he threw it out the window. 

Okay. Fine. Okay. 

Mott sits down in the middle of the floor, not unlike a fussy toddler and hangs his head in exhausted resignation. He feels his whole body shut down, like a machine that just sputtered and died. He’s just so _tired,_ more weary and rundown than he’s ever been. It’s not just physical, either; there’s a hollowness in his chest that aches and drains him. 

That book was his ticket to making himself useful. And he just threw it out the goddamn window. 

It’s not long before Lenny sits cross-legged in front of him, tilting his head and regarding him with sympathy. Mott can barely bring himself to meet Lenny’s gaze, overwhelmed with guilt. He doesn’t deserve Lenny’s sympathy.

“Looks like you took a pretty nasty fall,” he remarks, brushing some of Mott’s disheveled whiskers back into place. “You okay?” 

“Fine.” 

Silence. 

“Mott,” Lenny says, a stern frown tugging on his face. “I thought we talked about you holding back your feelings.” 

He bites the inside of his cheek, hesitant. He doesn’t want to bombard Lenny with all his problems. But Lenny is asking him to. And if he’s being honest with himself, it would feel nice to talk about it. 

Eventually, he relents, and it all comes crashing out. 

“I’ve been trying all day to make myself useful, but nothing is working. I don’t feel like I’ve earned your forgiveness, and I definitely haven’t proven myself worthy of being your partner. I thought the book could help me make things up to you by bringing an end to this death mission—” he waves a hand wordlessly, as if trying to catch a hold of his spiralling emotions. “—but I didn’t. I _can’t_.” 

For a moment, Lenny is quiet. Closing his eyes, Mott hangs his head again, despair creeping up his throat. Desperation tears at his heart so viciously he could cry. Then, Lenny’s hand gently boops his nose. 

“You’re already forgiven for what happened in New Crestmount, don’t even think of it no more,” Lenny assures, smiling at him when he looks up. “Also, you ain’t a tool to be used. You don’t gotta try and make yourself useful. I’m sure not useful all the time. I bump into things more often than not!” 

A laugh bubbles out of Lenny, but Mott can only manage a small smile. 

“Besides,” he continues, “that book was a whole bunch of nonsense, anywho. We’ll get Anastasia to explain it to us tomorrow.” 

Mott does huff a short laugh, at that. He sobers up and asks, “Are you really satisfied with a partner who’s a useless, no-good, waste of time?” 

Lenny’s brows furrow in confusion. “Do you really think that way about yourself?” 

Somewhat pathetically, he wonders, “Why wouldn’t I?” 

For a long, long moment, Lenny studies him. He appears to be sizing him up, as if looking at Mott from an angle he’s never seen before. Mott isn’t sure how he feels about the scrutiny. Although Anastasia examined him all day, this doesn’t feel the same. Anastasia’s was unnerving. Lenny’s is almost comforting, for lack of a better word. Like Mott’s layers are being peeled away, and instead of feeling vulnerable, he feels safe. 

“You’re none of those things, Mott,” Lenny states, his voice soft. He scoots closer, taking Mott’s hand between his delicate ones. Holding his breath, Mott gingerly returns the favor, almost afraid of crushing him. “I’m sorry that you feel that way about yourself. But you don’t need to prove anything to me—I already know how great you are. I think you need to prove it to yourself.” 

Mott turns the words over in his mind, contemplating them individually. The thought that Lenny thinks he’s great feels too good to be true, almost like it’s a lie. Yet, he knows Lenny can’t lie to save his life. So, maybe—just maybe—he really doesn’t have anything to prove to Lenny despite their recent falling out. 

Can it really be that simple? He messed up, tried to fix it, apologized, and now they’re okay again? If he’d done something like this to his family, they wouldn’t talk to him for a month, at least. Or until they needed something from him. 

That would mean the only person he has to convince is himself. 

Somehow, that feels a lot harder. 

“Maybe I do,” he admits, giving Lenny’s hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Come on!” Lenny urges, jumping to his feet. “Let’s go get that book, go to bed, and try again tomorrow!” 

They tiptoe down the stairs, taking extreme precaution not to wake the slumbering, snoring dragon as they pass by. When they slip outside of the apartment and wander around to the back, they find the book right where he dropped it and caked with slowly drying mud. 

Grimacing, Mott picks it up. Clumps of mud drop from the pages and splat on the ground. Turning over the book, he looks at the pages to see them covered from top to bottom in a thick layer of grime. 

“I can’t even see the words no more,” Lenny comments. 

Mott scoffs, “It’s not like we could read it, anyway.” 

His joke ousts an inelegant snort out of Lenny, soon devolving into a fit of bubbly laughter. Mott finds himself grinning and laughing along, thinking that if making Lenny laugh is all he can accomplish tonight, it’ll be more than enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S HILDAAAAAAA 
> 
> i missed her 
> 
> Also, hot take: Mott is a buff nerd, Lenny is a skinny jock. Do with this information what you will. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I look forward to your thoughts, especially as we begin to draw this story to a close in a few chapters. Please feel free to comment your thoughts, theories, or just random things you think of, and don't forget to come back next Wednesday!


	21. A Celebration of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is one that is long-awaited, for more reasons than one...

Anastasia was none too pleased that they ruined her book. Luckily, only a few pages were stained with mud, and although they never returned to their normal yellow-white, the words became legible again after careful cleaning. That doesn’t mean that Mott had any sort of success trying to read it, though, so he did away with the book entirely and asked Anastasia for a summary. 

Most of it was pretty boring history and scholarly debates, but there was a nugget of valuable information in it all. Not just valuable—priceless. She tells them how to seal Zekrom back into the stone.

“You must physically touch the stone,” she explains, gesturing as though she’s holding it. Mott and Lenny both lean forward, eager to hear what she has to say. The last time they had gotten this close to such crucial information was just before the death of the curator. “Then you must take control of Zekrom and order it back into the stone. You do know how to take control of it, yes?” 

They both shake their heads, entirely clueless and somewhat dazed. After fighting so hard to get this information, nearly dying in the process, sitting in Hilda’s living room and drinking tea seems like an anticlimactic and bizarre way to gain the answers they’ve been seeking. 

“Since Zekrom has been awakened, it is most likely being controlled by whoever summoned it,” she states, and Mott nods in agreement. “Whoever is controlling Zekrom is essentially projecting it’s desires onto the beast, causing it to go on this rampage. Zekrom derives power from the ideals and goals of whoever controls it and will continue to remain in a harmonious partnership with the summoner as long as their convictions are steadfast. Therefore, in order to seize control over Zekrom, your motivations must be stronger than whoever is already submitting Zekrom to their thrall.” 

The two of them are silent, slowly digesting everything they’ve discovered. 

Finally able to fill in the missing pieces, Mott lays it all out in his mind. Basically, he needs to find this stone, touch it, and battle for control over Zekrom in order to put the beast back to sleep. That’s easier said than done, considering that they have no idea where the stone is. 

“Is there a certain range that the stone-wielder has to be in to maintain control of Zekrom?” He asks, hoping to narrow down the scope of their search. 

She shrugs. “Unclear.” 

Sighing, he rubs the back of his neck. Theoretically, this person could be controlling Zekrom from halfway across the world for all they know. If the stone is as big as a house, that might make the search more manageable. But if it’s unreasonably small, then Mott and Lenny have to take a fine-toothed comb over the entire globe. 

That is… not ideal. 

“I agree, not ideal,” Anastasia says. Mott narrows his eyes at her. She clears her throat. “Right, no mind reading. My apologies. Nevertheless, I do believe that whoever is controlling Zekrom must have something to gain from all this destruction and death. Perhaps that will help you in your search.” 

She has a point. If the stone-wielder has to have steadfast conviction in order to maintain control of Zekrom, they can’t be doing all of this on a whim. There must be something deeper to it—something that they’re after. Maybe if Mott can dig more into that, he can discover who is behind all this. Finding them should lead him right to the stone, after all. 

As Mott loses himself in thought, Hilda and Amari enter the room. Amari is perched on their mom’s head, hanging onto a stone protrusion for security. They’re yawning sleepily and rubbing their eyes, giving Mott hope that they’re too tired to shout. Hilda tosses a satchel over her back and approaches her wife. 

“I am taking Amari to work,” she says, nuzzling Anastasia. Mott is almost surprised to see them engage in such soft domesticity. He’d kinda expected them to headbutt each other goodbye, or something. “We will be back before the festival tonight.” 

“Very well,” Anastasia replies. “I will be with our guests discussing Zekrom.” 

They say their goodbyes before Hilda departs, Lenny vibrating in his seat all the while. Mott arches a brow at him, trying to figure out what his deal is, but Lenny just keeps shaking like he’s about to explode. When Hilda and Amari leave, Lenny finally bursts. 

“There’s a festival tonight?” He blurts, beaming with excitement. 

Of course. Mott snorts reflexively, amused by Lenny’s overpowering enthusiasm. Anastasia turns to them, nodding. She seems entirely indifferent to Lenny’s overzealous bouncing. 

“Yes, it’s an annual festival we hold in the town,” she answers, much to Lenny’s obviously increasing delight. “You two ought to join me and my family tonight.” 

“What’s the festival about?” Mott asks, curious. 

Anastasia rises, gathering their empty tea cups. “It’s a celebration of all sorts of love: romantic, platonic, familial, and more. Any kind of love or devotion is celebrated and recognized tonight.” 

Lenny grips Mott’s arm and vigorously shakes, meaning he mostly shakes himself while Mott sits perfectly still. Nearly jostling himself dizzy, Lenny cries, “Mott, let’s go!” 

“Uh,” Mott says, intelligently, feeling heat creep into his cheeks. 

“It’ll be so much fun! When was the last time we went to any kind of party? Was it back in Moressley Town? I think it was. Wow, that feels like forever ago! We’ve been working so hard and it would be so nice to take a night to relax, don’t you think? I think so. It’ll be fun! We can go together with Anastasia and Hilda and Amari…” 

Lenny’s rambling continues on with no end in sight, energized and filled with ecstatic gestures and expressions. It doesn’t take long for Mott to lose track of what he’s saying, especially when he’s talking so fast. But mostly, the thought of going to a festival of love with Lenny is what wiped his mind. 

It’s not like the thought is unappealing. In fact it’s quite the opposite! The only problem is—well—it’s just—

It’s complicated, okay?! 

Chances are, Lenny isn’t even thinking of it the way Mott is. Anastasia said the festival was for all forms of love; it’s not inherently romantic. Also, he mostly just seems excited to party. He probably would’ve jumped on any excuse to have fun. 

That’s all that this is about. Kicking back and having fun. 

“Yeah, sure,” he agrees, fighting down his blush. 

Lenny chatters on about the festival for the next hour or so, pestering Anastasia with questions. If she’s irritated by the onslaught, she doesn’t show it. But she does eventually drift off to go rinse their tea cups, leaving Lenny to turn to Mott and continue his babbling with no pause. For a moment, Mott wonders when Lenny last took a breath between his rambling. Worrying about Lenny accidentally passing out due to over-talking at least distracts him from worrying about whatever is going on inside himself. 

Why is he so worked up about this festival, anyway? It’s not like he hasn’t been to one before. Just because it’s a festival of love doesn’t mean he’s going to have people fall in love with him left and right. Heck, some places celebrate festivals about the _moon_ of all things, that doesn’t mean everyone is getting a moon! 

Still, for whatever reason, he feels like there’s something special about this festival. Perhaps it’s less about the act of the festival and more about the acknowledgement of something he’s buried deep inside for a long while, now. Because if he’s being honest, it’s not like he _hasn’t_ thought of Lenny in a romantic sense. Who wouldn’t? There’s no denying that he’s charming and attractive, and those are great qualities! Anyone could fall for Lenny, but Mott’s just not sure that _he_ has. 

He’s never felt any of that stereotypical romantic stuff for Lenny. Whenever playwrights soliloquize on love, they gush poetry of stammering breath and trembling voices. If that’s love, then Mott has never had that, especially not for Lenny. His heart doesn’t flutter anxiously when Lenny is near and his stomach doesn’t twist itself into knots. Rather, it’s the opposite. 

When Lenny is near, a wave of calm washes over him. His heart settles down and the tension in his body releases. More and more, he’s finding that he can talk to Lenny about anything without fear of judgement or ridicule, and he’s delighted when he can offer the same solace in return. Lenny’s seen him at his worst and stood beside him despite the difficult path of growth he’s treaded. His loyalty and devotion are beyond anything Mott has ever experienced, and Mott will be forever grateful for it. He’ll be forever grateful for him. 

Lenny is a comforting, safe, and warm presence. 

Lenny is home. 

…Shit, that’s love, isn’t it? 

It’s not the fluttery poetry and blind romanticism. It’s not the makings of sonnets and paintings. It’s real. It’s the kind that stands the tests of time, the weather of hardship, and the tribulations of life. It’s like… old couple love. 

There’s a brief moment of panic injected into that discovery. 

Oh no. _Oh no_. When did he fall in love so hard? And how? And why did he go straight to being like an old couple in love; why couldn’t he have had like, a few normal years at least? Does Lenny even feel the same way? 

Another moment of panic. 

There’s no way Lenny feels the same, right? It’s weird that Mott is so entirely devoted after only knowing Lenny for about a half of a year. Yeah, that’s definitely weird of him. Lenny would probably be creeped out. As previously determined, Lenny views this festival as a chance to kick back and have fun—not to suddenly find a soulmate and fall into old couple love with them. That would be a bit dramatic. 

He snaps out of his thoughts when Lenny waves a hand in front of his face and asks, “Mott? Are you listening?” 

Shaking himself off, he says, “Sorry, I zoned out for a moment. Say that again?” 

Lenny needs no more encouragement to resume prattling on and on, and this time Mott actually pays attention. It’s not easy, though, considering the mess of thoughts and emotions he has to push to the side in order to do it. 

Tonight is about having fun. That’s it. Mott’s not going to be a jerk and ruin the festival for both of them with his weird feelings.

By the time Hilda and Amari return to the house, the sun is just starting to set and festival lanterns are flickering with life. The evening breeze is gentle and cool, carrying with it a tranquility as the night settles in. The small flames of the lanterns flicker with each whisper of wind, casting dancing shadows throughout the town. Seeing the town glowing in the night is a uniquely beautiful sight. Even with the lights, the night sky is clear and vivid, each star twinkling with diamond-like luster. 

It’s a perfect night for a festival, especially one celebrating such a warm and pure concept: love. Mott isn’t sure he’s ever been to a celebration for such an innocent cause. Most parties he’s attended were flooded with the rich and corrupt who wanted to boast their illicitly earned wealth. But there’s nobody like that at this party. Tonight, this party is for everyone—everyone has love, after all. 

Hilda and her family lead them through the streets, showing them the sights of the city. Amari is most eager to show them everything they find cool, shouting “LOOK AT THIS” and “OVER THERE IS MY FAVORITE ROCK.” Lenny takes Amari’s excitable yelling in stride, matching their enthusiasm by asking a billion questions per second. There’s no room between them for another word. Mott is fairly certain the two of them could power a sizable city with the energy of their chattering alone. 

It’s not long before Amari starts clamoring about the festival. “I CAN’T WAIT TO GET MY LANTERN!” 

“Lantern?” Lenny asks, tilting his head curiously. 

“YEAH! YOU’VE GOTTA BUY A LANTERN AND SEND IT INTO THE SKY AT THE END OF THE NIGHT!” Mott’s ears are ringing so much he almost can’t hear the next part. “YOU SEND IT OFF TO SHOW EVERYONE HOW THANKFUL YOU ARE FOR THE LOVE IN YOUR LIFE!” 

“That’s so cute!” Lenny cries, clapping his hands together excitedly. Walking backwards so he can face Mott, he declares, “We gotta get some.” 

Lenny’s smile is bright, and his gait is carefree like a dancer’s. With that smile trained on him, Mott can’t help but smile in return. 

“Sure, why not,” he responds. 

Swinging his arms with delight, Lenny spins back around, a slight hop to his step. He leaps and skips from stone to stone along the cobblestone street, laughing when Amari stiffly joins in. His laugh isn’t one of the pretty kinds, the kinds that sound like wind chimes or music; instead, it’s an infectious one. It’s the type of laugh that sparks joy, bringing smiles to everyone’s faces. It’s a dorky half-giggle, half-snort. It’s the best kind of laugh. 

Mott watches Lenny and Amari jump from stone to stone, apparently playing some new made-up game with no rules. In the lanterns’ glow, he looks soft: no hard edges to him, all heart and soul. When he cheers for Amari and praises their stubby-legged jumps, that pure softness overwhelms him. 

It doesn’t take long for Amari to find the game boring. Eventually, they stop hopping around, flailing their little arms until Hilda picks them up and sets them on her back. Lenny pats their head and tells them that they won the game. Amari beams with pride and shouts to Hilda: “DID YOU HEAR THAT?” 

Mott’s smile is too big for him to wince. A low laugh chuckles out of him, and he shakes his head. If she hadn’t heard, she sure has now. 

Hilda’s family veers off to find Amari a lantern, leaving Mott and Lenny to wander on their own for a bit. Lenny watches them go for a moment before turning his attention elsewhere. He seems to be taking in the festival, gazing at the sights with wide, shining eyes. Mott can’t blame him. The town has always been gorgeous in a phenomenally inventive way, but seeing the same buildings blanketed in night and decorated in love turns it into a whole new world. 

It’s not just the sights that are breathtaking. The sounds, the smells, the tastes—all of them are intertwined into the fabric of the festival like an artfully woven tapestry. Music pounds through the streets like a heartbeat, thrumming through the city. But what truly gives life to the festival is the endless sea of people: chattering, laughing, and singing; all these sounds and more rise above the rooftops and warm the atmosphere. The scent of freshly baked pastries wafts through the air, so mezmerizing that Mott can nearly taste the honey on them. 

Mott loves this. 

Lenny seems to feel the same, because his smile is only getting wider. He nods his head to the music flowing through the streets, humming clumsily along as if pretending he knows the words. His singing is not very good. Mott loves it. 

Wait, hold on! Mott shakes his head as if he can rattle his thoughts out. He’d promised himself _not_ to ruin the festival with his feelings! Not even an hour in, and his head has already wandered off. Get it together! 

Before he can slip away and maybe find a mirror to give himself a pep talk with, he’s stopped in his tracks by a booming, familiar shout. “Mott!” 

He whips around, a huge grin on his face. “Torquil!” 

The emboar himself comes lumbering down the street, a patterned poncho draped over his shoulders. He’s waving a giant, meaty hand in the air, as if Mott might not be able to see the lone figure towering over every other pedestrian. Rolling his eyes with a huff of laughter, he jogs over to his old friend. When he reaches him, he slams playfully against his side in a chummy greeting. Torquil ‘ _oof_ ’s then laughs. 

“What are you doing here?” Torquil asks, throwing an arm around his neck. 

“Following a Zekrom lead,” he answers, nudging him in response. “You?” 

Torquil spreads his arms out, gesturing to their resplendent surroundings. “Visiting my favorite place in the world!” 

“You’ve been here before?” 

“I come here all the time,” he replies, taking a deep, satisfied breath. “There’s nowhere in the region so beautiful. The art, the science, the people—everything here is beyond anything else I’ve ever seen.” 

It makes sense, he realizes, that Torquil would like such a place. He wonders if this is where Torquil discovered his love of painting. 

He doesn’t get the chance to ask before Lenny comes bounding over, waving excitedly. “Howdy there, stranger!” 

Torquil scoops Lenny into a hug and spins him around, plopping him back on the ground only after squeezing the life out of him. Lenny doesn’t look one bit disoriented, whereas Mott got dizzy just by watching. “You look great,” Torquil says, a hint of relief in his tone. “No more bandages?” 

“No more bandages,” Lenny confirms with a nod. Leaning against Mott’s side, he teases, “No thanks to Mott.” 

Mott makes a face. “What’s that supposed to mean?!” 

“It means you’d keep me in bandages forever if you’d had your way!” 

Torquil laughs, throwing an arm around each of them. “What are the odds that we’d all be here tonight? It’s rare enough to see you two, but Florian too?” 

Mott perks up. “Florian’s here? Why?” 

Torquil shrugs. “Some family business he doesn’t care to talk about. You know, the usual. But if he’s in town, there’s a chance he might swing by to the festival.” 

“I doubt it,” Mott says, “he’s never been the type to socialize if he doesn’t need to.” 

“Well, if he does he does, if he doesn’t he doesn’t,” Torquil remarks, carefree. “Now let’s go get something to drink! The ale here is to die for!” 

Like anything, Lenny is one thousand percent on board, racing after Torquil to the nearest bar. Mott chases after them, wondering how he got to this point in his life. Since when was _he_ the voice of reason? 

They each get a drink on Torquil, who buys a round for everyone in the bar. The mugs that are slid down in front of them are nearly bigger than Lenny’s head. Mott keeps a careful eye on Lenny, because there’s no way he’s not a lightweight. Mott doesn’t want the night to end prematurely because Lenny passed out and got a concussion. 

It seems he doesn’t have much to worry about. Lenny downs his drink faster than the both of them, slamming it back on the counter and laughing too loud. Mott’s jaw hangs open while Torquil’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. 

“How—?” Torquil starts, astonished. 

“You city folk are slow,” Lenny taunts, a mischievous smile on his face. 

Immediately, Torquil is itching to start a drinking competition, but Mott hastily shoots that idea down. He instead insists the three of them drink some water and loathes his new position as The Friend with Common Sense. 

By the time they’ve finished up at the bar and head back out on the street, the city has grown even livelier. Traveling bands round every corner, portrait artists set up their easels, and merchants line the streets to haggle their wares. As before, lanterns glitter in the night—only this time, several people are holding lanterns of their own. 

“Oh, right!” Lenny exclaims, clapping his hands together. “We gotta get a lantern!” 

“You’ve got all night to do that,” Torquil assures, learning them down the crowded street. “There’s plenty of other things you gotta do, first!” 

“Like…?” Mott prompts. 

“Games, contests, races, battles,” Torquils lists, counting them off on his fingers. “And like, a ton more. Seriously, there’s no way to get bored here. If you want, I can show you—” He cuts himself off with a gasp. “Florian!” 

The serperior himself is idly perusing some merchant’s tables, uninterested. When he hears Torquil, he looks up casually as if he’d been waiting around for him all night. Knowing Florian, he probably had been. Festivals aren’t really his scene, but they _are_ Torquil’s. If Florian wanted to meet up with Torquil, this would be a pretty good place to find him. 

“Fancy seeing you two here,” he says, approaching them with cool indifference. Eyeing Mott and Lenny, he remarks, “I didn’t realize you two were here, as well.” 

“We just came in a few days ago,” Lenny chirps, clapping his hands together excitedly. “Wow, it’s so exciting that we’re all here!” 

“Yes,” Florian responds, much less enthusiastically. His gaze eventually leaves Lenny and turns to Mott and Torquil. “Do your families know you are here?” 

“Does yours?” Mott retorts. 

Florian sniffs, furrowing his brow. But he says nothing more on the subject. “How long will you all be in town?” 

“Who knows?” Torquil grins, lacing his hands behind his head in a relaxed pose. “I just come and go as I please.” 

“Same,” Mott shrugs. 

Florian scoffs. “Since when were you so careless, Mott?” 

Mott grins. “Since when did you call me Mott?” 

Florian flushes. “I don’t. It was a mere slip of the tongue.” 

“ _Sure_.” 

“I don’t!” 

“ _Suuuuuure_.” 

“Before you two devolve into another argument,” Torquil interrupts, laughing, “there’s some fun games we should all try.” 

The mention of games piques Lenny’s interest. And by that, Mott means that Lenny nearly bolts in the direction of the nearest game, a huge smile on his face. Mott chases after him before he can lose him in the crowd, and Torquil laughs and strolls after with a leisurely pace. Florian rolls his eyes but follows, anyway. 

Hurrying after Lenny leads them all to a clearing on the beach, where dozens of games, contests, and races are set up. As Lenny bounds down the slope, eager to try everything, Mott and the others survey the scene from the top of the hill. 

“I bet I can beat you guys in every game,” Mott declares, smirking. 

Florian scowls. “You’re on.” 

In no time at all, the three of them are tearing down the hill, racing to get to the games first. He’s pretty sure the sight of three fully-evolved pokémon charging toward them scares the living daylights out of the vendors running the games. 

Oops. 

Regardless, they dive into the games with such ferocity that each activity flies by before he knows it. There’s hoop toss, dancing, balloon darts, dunk tanks, singing, and even juggling. Mott has no idea how the hell Florian does so good at juggling, but he handily beats them. In fact, he handily beats them in everything. Torquil clearly doesn’t care, grinning widely through every game he loses. At first, Mott cares a little. He’s always been a bit competitive, especially when it comes to Florian. But as the night goes on, that feeling starts to fade. Why bother struggling to win when having fun is the point? 

As soon as he settles into the idea of just having fun, the fun comes a lot easier. He and Torquil lose, hilariously and thoroughly, at everything they do. And it just gets funnier every time. By the end of it they’re doubling over, crying with laughter. Even Florian cracks a smile in spite of himself at their blunders. 

Lenny is soon in the same boat as them, failing at nearly every activity. His own clumsiness is his worst and most hysterical enemy. The amount of times Torquil and Mott have howled at the sight of Lenny tripping himself during some contest soon becomes far too high to count. And when Hilda and her family eventually regroup with them, they join in the side-splitting screw-ups. Especially Amari, who bellows “AW MAN” every time their tubby legs slip up. 

They get up to even more shenanigans throughout the night. Torquil does a drinking contest despite Mott’s best efforts to stop him, and then joins a painting contest. Somehow, Drunk Torquil paints better than Sober Torquil. 

Florian takes part in a battle competition and swiftly beats every opponent. He wins a stuffed heart that he quickly and secretly passes on to Amari. Amari waddles away with the plushie twice their size, triumphant. 

Anastasia and Hilda participate in one of those ‘how-well-do-you-know-your-partner’ challenges. They leave everyone in the dust, and when they kiss at the end, Amari fake vomits for ten minutes after. 

Lenny and Mott run a team relay race. Lenny dashes first and easily steals the lead, and Mott loses it just as quickly. They’re awarded two honorable mention medals for their efforts. 

“Congratulations on losing,” Mott jokes, bowing his head to Lenny like it’s some great honor. 

Lenny laughs, bright and loud. Pinning Mott’s medal to the handkerchief on his arm, he rests his hand over Mott’s arm and smiles. “Congratulations on losing.” 

A delighted flush spreads throughout his whole body, trembling from head to toe. 

The night continues with just as much energy as it started with. Eventually Lenny and Mott take a break from the festivities to get something to eat. A nearby stand is selling scrumptious smelling grilled berries, and when they get closer to the cart Mott’s mouth nearly waters in anticipation. They devour their goodies with gusto, not even sparing a drop of juice. The taste is beyond anything Mott could ever describe, savory and sweet and smoky all at once. Lenny mimics fainting due to sheer bliss and laughs when Mott freaks out for a moment. 

After their meal, Amari tugs Lenny off to play a game of hopscotch with them. It’s not long after that Torquil discovers a maze, and he’s eagerly dragging Mott and Florian along to wander through it. 

“Remember when we used to run through flower gardens all the time?” Torquil babbles, his arms around their necks. “There’s no flowers this time, but it’s close enough.” 

The maze walls are made of hay and the paths are crowded with other festival-goers. It’s nothing like the flower gardens of their childhood, adorned with white lilacs and sectioned off from the world in a fantastical bubble of their own. Those days of their childhood—those carefree days where they held nothing but blind affection for each other—they’re long gone. They’ve hurt each other and betrayed each other and chosen their families over each other far too much to return to the innocence of those flower gardens. 

And yet, here they are: attending a festival of love, holding each other close, with no walls of resentment stacked between them. They might have gained some wounds along the way, but they came back together in the end. They were friends as children because children don’t know how to be anything less. But as adults, they have the choice—and they’ve chosen to walk the maze together again. 

He thinks it might be better this way. He thinks he might like it better, too. 

The summer breeze blows off the ocean, sweet and salty and cool. Yet, Mott feels impossibly warm. It could be the alcohol finally making an appearance, but he has a feeling that’s not it. The warmth is all encompassing, coming from the bodies around him and spreading outward from the heart. 

It takes him a little over an hour to finally understand what he’s feeling: love. He loves this town. He loves this night. He loves Torquil and Florian and Hilda and Anastasia and Amari. He loves Lenny. He even loves himself. 

Love. Is there anything better than love?

The scream of a firework shoots through the air, erupting into a thousand bedazzling colors. Mott turns his head toward the heavens, gazing upon the sparkling colors that light up the night sky. Hearts of red and orange and pink burst overhead, showering shimmering light downward. By the time they exit the maze, the firework show is in full swing above the lake. 

Down at the end of the beach, where the waves slide up to shore, Mott spots Lenny standing alone. The flood of light shines down on him, washing him in faded colors. But when Mott looks in his eye, he sees the fireworks reflected clearly, more vivid and beautiful than the real thing. Telling Torquil and Florian he’ll catch up with them later, he races down to Lenny. 

When he reaches Lenny’s side, Lenny looks up at him. Then, he smiles. Mott returns the gesture, settling beside him. They watch the fireworks in comfortable silence. 

Mott has spent all night trying to keep his mind from wandering to thoughts about love, but as he gazes at the hearts soaring in the starry sky, he can’t bring himself to want that anymore. He doesn’t want to ignore his feelings. He doesn’t want to ignore his love. He wants to accept it, embrace it, and express it. 

What good does ignoring love do for a person, anyway? All it does is drive people further apart, like it did to him and Torquil and Florian. The thought of that happening to him and Lenny—either suffering the slow drift apart or the painful stab of bitter betrayal—it pierces his heart. It aches down to his bones. 

When has he ever loved someone the way he loves Lenny? Never. And he really thought he was gonna be able to just push that aside? 

Lenny leans against him. “Mott,” he whispers, and Mott knows he’s home. 

“Yeah?” 

“We oughta go get our lanterns before the end of the night.” 

He’s right. The end of the festival is fast approaching, and that means it’s almost time to send up their lanterns. What was it Amari said about the lanterns? They said it had something to do with showing everyone how thankful you are for the love in your life. 

Mott is thankful. Right now, there’s nothing in the world he’s more thankful for. He’s thankful for Torquil, who’s been more right about the world than Mott ever gave him credit for, and kept giving Mott second chances after he’d hurt him. He’s thankful for Florian, who can be a bastard, but can also be a silently thoughtful friend. He’s thankful for Hilda—even when she terrifies him—because she’s had his back whenever he’s needed it. He’s thankful for Anastasia and Amari, too, even though he just met them. 

But most of all, he’s thankful for Lenny. From the beginning of this insane quest, Lenny has been the one constant. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, he’s stayed loyal and steady. He’s been a smiling face on a rainy day. He’s been a comforting companion when Mott can’t stand himself. He’s been laughter, and jokes, and singing, and clumsiness, and sewing, and flower crowns, and love, and love, and _love_. 

Mott stands, a profound sense of contentment coursing through him. He’s going to do it. When they send off their lanterns at the end of the night, Mott is going to confess his feelings. He’s going to tell Lenny how thankful he is for his presence and how deep his love for him runs. 

“Come on,” he says, nudging Lenny with his muzzle. “Let’s go get our lanterns.” 

Lanterns really are beautiful. There’s something about a lantern on a dark, starry summer’s night that can’t be compared to anything else. No matter the shape, size, or color, each one has a little flickering heart inside, a small and steady flame that keeps in alight. The flame could either illuminate it with heavenly splendor or consume it in a fiery wrath. The precious balance of the fire embraced by fragile paper is a most pure form of trust. 

Mott wonders if the festival deliberately chose paper lanterns as their symbol of love for that very reason. 

It takes him and Lenny about a half and hour to find the perfect lanterns for themselves. Lenny’s is a gentle green sphere, soft and round and delicate. Artful leaves are inked along the sides in an intricate show of beauty. Mott finds a blue, cylindrical lantern, broad and sturdy. Crashing waves circle around the lantern. 

Some people have already begun to set theirs off by the time Mott and Lenny are walking back to the beach. The soft glow of the lanterns couples with the silvery glimmer of the stars and creates a work of art unlike anything Mott has ever seen. It all reflects on the glassy lake like an endless galaxy of light. 

Mott leads them down to a secluded cove on the beach where they will be able to send off their lanterns in private. It’s a place where barely any lanterns have floated off too, so it still retains its unblemished darkness. 

He wonders what their lanterns will look like, shining together in the darkness. 

When they reach the shoreline, away from the commotion of the festival, they stand shoulder to shoulder. The gentle waves lap at their feet, washing over in soft whispers before retreating into the glossy lake. Above them, a cluster of stars glimmer, the only other witnesses to this moment. 

“It sure is beautiful tonight,” Lenny sighs, dreamy and content. 

Mott turns to look at him, soaking in the sight of a billion, diamond-like stars reflected in his eyes. 

“Yes,” he agrees, “it is.” 

Lenny meets his gaze with a smile, holding up his lantern. “Should we send them off?” Mott raises his own in response and mirrors his smile. 

Together, wordlessly, they usher their lanterns upward, releasing them to the heavens. The lantern feels airy and weightless in his hands, and it easily drifts toward the sky as if it’s being called home. Called home to join the rest of the stars, perhaps—but it doesn’t go alone. Lenny’s lantern remains alongside throughout the journey, twirling and dancing together beyond the inky and endless horizon. 

Together, the lanterns float away. Together, Mott and Lenny watch in contemplative silence. Mott can only assume Lenny is taking the time to be thankful for the love surrounding him, just as Mott is—given the circumstances, he can’t fathom anyone doing anything less. The night is so full of love, so saturated in it, that Mott can hardly think of anything else. 

He doesn’t know how he never realized his feelings for Lenny before. He doesn’t know how he was so blind to it. He doesn’t know how he thought he was going to keep it a secret forever. But none of that matters anymore, because he’s ending that now. 

He clears his throat. “Lenny?” 

Lenny’s eyes remain on their lanterns. “Hmm?” 

Lenny’s voice is soft; his eyes are softer. He watches their lanterns disappear together. Mott breathes in the sight, his heart racing, and swallows. “There’s something that I want to tell you.” 

Those captivating eyes turn to him. “That you cheated at ring toss?” 

“What? No. Why would I—?” 

“I know you cheated, don’t even lie.” 

Mott feels unreasonably defensive about the accusation. “I didn’t.” 

“I saw you!” 

“I didn’t! How would a person even cheat at _ring toss_?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.” 

“I didn’t cheat!” 

Lenny laughs, his eyes crinkling with delight as he throws his head back. Mott huffs as Lenny continues to cackle. His laughter is loud and quickly devolves into uncontrollable snorting. 

“You don’t gotta pout,” Lenny giggles, covering his mouth. His eyes are brimming with amusement and affection. “I ain’t gonna turn you in to the ring toss police, or nothing.” 

“They would find me not guilty,” he mutters childishly before shaking off the conversation. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about though. I have something important to tell you.” 

‘Something’ implies that he’s only telling one thing; when in reality, it’s more like a series of things. Love is not a one-time event. It transcends beyond a singular moment and comes in different forms depending on which direction in time you look. In the past, love is nearly invisible until you review each second with the clearer lens of hindsight and understand that love was hiding around every corner. In the future, love is a gift destined to grow stronger. 

And in the present, love is a choice. It is not an emotion that blinds us or a madness that ruins us. Love is a deliberate, difficult, wonderful, action that says, over and over, _I choose you_. 

Lenny blinks at him, tilting his head. “You got something you wanna tell me?” 

Mott takes a deep breath before responding to his question. He doesn’t want this confession to be some run-of-the-mill conversation. He wants it to be special, so that Lenny can see how much he truly cares for him. He wants it to be poetic. 

He knows exactly how he’s going to say it, too, as if he’d been born and raised for this very moment. He’s going to start from the beginning of it all, when Lenny saved his life in more ways than one. He wants to carry them through each moment in their grand, perilous journey together and express how his love for him grew. More than anything, he wants to show Lenny just how much he loves him and wrap it all in a poetic resolution. A perfect story woven with utmost care, the individual threads specifically chosen for their intended task. By the end of it, he wants their love to be even stronger than it was before. 

He starts: “When I first met you, I—” 

“I love you, Mott.” 

Mott chokes. “I’m sorry?” 

“You said you had something you wanted to tell me, but I had something to tell you, too, and I just couldn’t wait,” Lenny explains as Mott flounders. “So, I interrupted. Awfully rude of me, sorry. Now, onto what you were gonna say?” 

Sputtering, fragmented words of confusion and distress spilling past his lips, Mott struggles to grasp a sliver of composure and coherency. “H-hold on! We can’t just, just—brush over what you just said!” 

“Oh, we can come back to it in a bit.” 

Come back to it?! “Wha—no! We have to—you love me?” He stammers, his heart pounding and his breath coming short. Beside him, Lenny is the perfect image of calm. How?! “You mean, like, _love_ love, or just like, friend love?” 

Smooth. Very poetic, Mott. 

“Of course I love you as a friend,” Lenny says, and Mott’s heart deflates before he adds, “but I’d like to be more.” 

Mott stares at him. Gapes. Realizes he looks like an idiot. Snaps his mouth and stares. 

“Me too; I’d like to be more!” Mott blurts, his tongue running faster than his brain. “You know, I mean, if it’s cool with you. It’s cool with me.” He opens and closes his mouth like a fish for another moment. “I—I was trying to confess, you know!” 

“Oh?” 

“ _Oh_?!” He mocks, then: “Yeah, you jerk! I had a whole speech planned! I was worrying about it all night!” 

He can’t believe Lenny just stole his confession! It was going to be very romantic! 

Lenny beams. “That’s great! Then I guess it’s settled.” 

“Uh,” he says, dumbly. His mouth hurts from hanging open so much. “Yeah, I. Uh. I guess it is.” 

Lenny’s smile turns warm with a glimmer of mischievous delight, likely taking amusement in Mott’s dumbstruck state. Without another word, he leans against Mott, resting his head on his upper arm and watching the lanterns flooding the sky. Mott, still mentally catching up, can only continue to stare.

...He doesn’t feel any different. 

After a little more thought, he supposes he _shouldn’t_ feel much different, after all. He’s always loved Lenny. Now he just loves him in a new way. 

Dropping his chin on Lenny’s head, they rest against each other just as they have a thousand times before. 

As they sit together on the beach, watching the lanterns drift, Mott contemplates it all. There was no poetic confession. There was no poetic spring of new emotion and fluttering hearts. And it turns out, he’s not the slightest bit upset about it. 

After all: true love, so often, is not very poetic at all. 

By the time the lantern show is over, the two of them are trudging back to Hilda’s house. The slow, sleepy drag of their limbs leave long footprints in the sand—footprints that stay close together. Even though their eyes are drooping and their movements are sluggish, smiles dance on their face. 

Mott’s happy. Happier than he’s ever been. It boggles his mind to think that only a few months ago, all he ever wanted was to ditch Lenny and return to his father’s good graces. He can hardly believe he wanted to give all this up. It makes him think of the advice Torquil has given him so many times before: do what you want; focus on joy rather than success. Back when Mott was more arrogant and self-centered, that advice sounded like a concession of failure; like the words of a second rate, clueless aristocrat. Now, he sees just how wise Torquil really is. 

What even is success if you’re not happy? Isn’t happiness a success of its own kind? 

Lenny playfully bumps his shoulder, as if he might be able to throw Mott off balance. With a tired grin, Mott returns the gesture and knocks Lenny flat on his butt. 

“Hey!” 

Laughing, Mott jogs ahead before Lenny can get him back. He knows it’s a moot point, considering Lenny’s speed, but he doesn’t care. Despite his sleepiness, there’s a deeper energy thrumming inside him, flowing from the heart. 

When Lenny catches up with him, he doesn’t bump him again. Instead, he hops on his back, wrapping his arms around his neck and letting Mott do all the walking home. He feigns like he might shake Lenny off, and Lenny grips tighter. A strangled, breathless snort escapes Mott. 

On their way back to Hilda’s house, they wander through the dark, empty town. Seeing the streets without the decorations and lights and commotion is a strange sight, but it’s not a worse one. There’s something about the silent simplicity of a town at night that fills him with bliss. It’s a warm, wholesome sensation that’s compounded by the feeling of Lenny leaning against his back. 

Every part of him is melting with delight. 

They approach the inn that they had been staying at previously, the one where Torquil and Florian are now staying. Before he passes it by, Mott gazes at the windows and wonders which one is Florian’s. Probably the only one with the lights still on. That guy has never been able to stop working. 

A hint of sadness threatens to creep through the cracks of his pleasant attitude. In the past, he always viewed Florian as an obstacle to overcome, or as some paragon to aspire to become. Florian always succeeded in everything; why wouldn’t Mott be envious? That is, until he realized another thing Torquil was right about—Florian is sad. 

Florian _is_ sad. His life as the Callahan patriarch is devoted to ensuring the influence and reputation of the family, which hinges directly on Florian’s personal successes. Where he fails, so does the family. Everyone bearing the Callahan name expects greatness from him; anything less is intolerable. 

When does Florian have time to be happy? When his happiness is pushed aside in the name of material success, is he ever truly happy? 

Mott stops in front of the inn, nudging Lenny. A small, sleepy whine is startled out of him. 

“Len? Can you wait here for just a second?” He wonders, his voice low and soft. Lenny looks up, blinking sleep out of his eyes. “I’m gonna talk to Florian for a minute.” 

Lenny nods, yawning. Mott helps him down so that he doesn’t faceplant on the cobblestone street, nudging him over to a curb to sit and wait. Before he heads into the inn, Lenny pats the side of his face and kisses his cheek. The sheer joy that gives him could fuel him for weeks. 

He slips into the inn, quiet, and nods to the concierge on duty. Moving up the stairs, he tries to think of what room would correspond with the lit window he spotted from outside. He passes a room on the corner from which muffled snoring can be heard. With a huff of amusement and a quick eye roll, he determines that room to be Torquil’s. 

A few doors down, a sliver of light slips under the crack of the door. Mott knocks on the door, but no one answers. He knocks again, slowly pushing the door open to find it empty. Florian’s satchel is slung over a hook on the wall, though, so he knows he doesn’t have the wrong room. 

Where would Florian even go? Maybe to the bathroom. Maybe to wake Torquil up and tell him to shut up. His snoring is practically rocking the whole inn, after all. Whatever it is, Mott decides he can wait a few minutes for Florian to return, and if he’s not back soon, he’ll just leave a note so they can meet up before Florian leaves the town. 

With that in mind, he sits. 

And waits. 

...And promptly gets bored. 

He walks around the room to entertain himself. It’s not all that entertaining, especially after ten loops or so. He looks out the window for a minute to see if he can spot Florian outside. Nothing. He stares at the ceiling and tries to count the little cracks in it. He gets to twenty three before he gets sick of it. 

Some papers on the desk catch his eye, mostly because they’re in a messy disarray. For someone who prides himself on being immaculate, his desk is atrocious. Mott goes over to it with the intent to organize it and write a quick note before he returns to Lenny and goes to sleep for the night. It’s easier said than done, because there are a _lot_ of papers. He starts with the far right corner and immediately finds something interesting. 

From beneath a stack of books, he pulls out a dated newspaper clipping describing Professor Anastasia Hallowood’s work. There’s another one about the curator at Roselake City, whose name is apparently Adelina Birch. Both clips are only brief snippets, and the main chunk of it talks about their life in their respective hometowns, but it’s still surprising to see Florian has them. Maybe he’s looking into Zekrom, too? If he is, he’s probably found a lot more than Mott has and just hasn’t shared any of it with him, the bastard. 

He shuffles through some more papers, most of them being boring letters from this family member or that ally demanding that Florian perform this or that task for them. One letter he finds is from Roselake City Museum, confirming the withdrawal of donation funds. 

...What? 

Florian donated to the museum and pulled his funds? 

The door creaks open. 

“Montgomery?” Florian starts, eyes wide. He narrows them. “What are you doing in my room?” 

“I was just looking for you,” he says, his mouth heavy and dry. His heart is pounding. “I wanted to talk to you.” 

“So you had to break in?” Florian sniffs, slithering past him and rolling his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost all your manners out on the road.” 

Mott watches him. Florian doesn’t seem to notice, too preoccupied rummaging through his bag. Swallowing the lump in his throat. His eyes dart down to the family pendant on his neck. He focuses on the black, glittering jewel inside.

“Well? I don’t have all night,” Florian snips, closing his back and placing it back on the hook. Raising a characteristically haughty brow at him, he demands, “What did you need?” 

The black jewel looks familiar. Sickeningly familiar. It’s the inscriptions, Mott realizes, with a sense of panicked detachment. 

Thunderstorms. 

“Montgomery.” 

His eyes shoot up to Florian’s. Florian watches him, a taut hesitance beginning to creep into his features. Florian’s gaze becomes needle-sharp, defensive yet probing. Mott can hardly breathe. 

“It’s you,” Mott says, trembling from head to toe. “It’s _you_.” 

Florian stiffens. 

For a long, drawn out moment, neither of them speak. All they do is stare at each other, tense and unblinking. Mott’s not sure that either of them even breathe. 

Then, with a sharp turn of his head, Florian speaks.

“What are you talking about? Of course I’m me; what did you expect when you came into my room, to find someone else? You’ve clearly had too much to drink tonight,” he states, his tone cold and callous. He sounds nothing like himself. Mott wonders if he even knows Florian’s true self to make that judgement. “Why don’t you go home and rest. We’ll talk in the morning.” 

Mott nods, numb. He takes a step back, toward the door. Florian watches him, unmoving, unblinking, coiled up tight and ready to pounce. 

His heart pounds. 

They watch each other. 

In a flash, Mott lunches forward with his scalchop, slashing at the pendant. 

Florian whips aside, narrowly dodging, but not fast enough to keep the pendant from being sliced from his neck. Mott snatches the pendant from the air, reaching out to rip the jewel from it, but he barely brushes a finger against it before Florian retaliates with a blindingly rapid strike. 

Staggering back and crashing into the desk, Mott shakes his head to reorient himself. Florian is gone. 

His breath halts in his throat, aching and frantic. He whips his head back and forth in a desperate search, catching a glimpse of green entirely by chance—from the ceiling. Up in the rafters, Florian looms like a gargoyle statue, glowering down at him. It reminds him of the Roselake Museum, of the killer in the rafters—the killer that struck with blindingly rapid speed. 

The shadows cast up onto Florian’s face in an eerie caricature of the devil. 

Mott’s never seen this face on his childhood friend. 

“It’s you,” he rasps, somewhere between rage and fear and disbelief. He wants to believe it’s not real. He wants to wake up and laugh at himself for having such a silly nightmare. But Florian’s tail curls possessively around the pendant, the pendant holding Zekrom’s stone. “It was you this whole time?” 

“Didn’t I tell you to stop with your suicidal quest?” Florian hisses, venom burning in his eyes. “Didn’t I warn you?” 

Mott’s heart threatens to burst into his throat. “Sapphire City. Ada’s son. Adelina Birch. You killed them all, you—” His throat constricts, sore and pinched. He can only manage a whisper: “ _You tried to burn Lenny to death._ ” 

“Listen, I tried to keep you out of all of it! But you kept trying to hunt Zekrom, and I couldn’t let you put an end to my strongest asset. This power is the only thing keeping my family above the others; it’s the only thing that can destroy other family powers and assets in an instant. I needed to do this for my family,” he proclaims, fervent and manic. “So just keep in mind when you’re looking for someone to blame: this all started with you.” 

And with that, he lunges straight for Mott’s throat. 

There’s no hope of Mott dodging. In a blur, Florian is wound around his neck, constricting tight enough to cut his airflow. A choked gasp escapes Mott as he feverishly claws at Florian’s torso. It’s no good. Florian is coiled and Mott is prone, unable to gain enough advantage to throw him off. As a last resort, Mott beats his fist into the desk, knocking things to the ground. Books and paperweights thump against the floor, and one of the inn vases shatter on impact. 

The commotion works like a charm. Distantly, past the blood rushing in his ears and the faint buzz of asphyxiation, he hears Torquil’s snoring stop with a halt. Mott beats the desk again, knocking down more books. A grumble from the other room, followed by footsteps that grow ever closer. 

Florian hears it too. His eyes widen and he scowls down at Mott. Their eyes meet and they both know Florian has enough strength to finish the job. He can squeeze hard enough to snap Mott’s neck; he can end it before Torquil gets here and interferes. He could end it before Mott has a chance to expose him, and he can make up some lie about Mott trying to kill him in revenge for being cast out of his family.

It would be plausible. People would believe it. The only person that would raise a fuss would be Lenny, but when faced with Florian’s pristine reputation, his words would be mocked and silenced. The case would be open and shut. Florian would get away clean. 

He can tell by looking into Florian’s calculating eyes that he knows everything Mott does. He knows he can get away with murder. He’s always been the chessmaster, aware of every move he can take and choosing the most strategic one. 

But by the time Torquil is turning the knob, Florian releases him. Mott gasps, his throat roughened and bruised. Coughing and holding his neck, he wheezes on the ground, hacking air back into his lungs. 

Florian retreats back to the rafters, eyes wide. Mott has never seen him make a tactical error before. 

“Woah, guys, what’s going on?” Torquil exclaims, clueless to the atmosphere. He helps Mott up. Mott keeps his eyes locked on Florian’s with frantic persistence, and Florian does the same with equal ferocity. “Don’t tell me you’re fighting again; I thought we moved past this…” 

It strikes him suddenly that the pendant is gone. Florian just had it; where did it go? His eyes dart around the room in a desperate search until they land on the corner of the room— _there_. There, fallen in a heap on the floor, is the broken pendant. Florian must’ve dropped it when he was strangling him. 

Just as Mott lunges for it, Florian does the same. Torquil shouts at them, grabbing him, trying to intervene—and for a heartstopping moment, Mott worries he won’t make it. That Florian will reach the pendant and escape. But then there’s a blur of green and Florian goes flying back. 

Standing between Mott and Florian, poised and ready to strike again, is Lenny. 

“What in tarnation is going on here?” Lenny demands, standing his ground. 

“The pendant!” Mott cries as Florian coils upward once more. “Get the pendant!” 

Florian shoots himself at Lenny, lashing out in a brutal attack. A yell of protest escapes Torquil as Lenny crashes into the wall. Racing over to Florian in an attempt to placate him, Torquil tries to get between the fight—only for Florian to thrash at him in a berserk impulse. 

Torquil staggers back, holding his wounded arm. “Florian, what…?” 

He doesn’t deign to offer Torquil and explanation, instead dashing aside and bulleting toward the pendant. Summoning a burst of water, Mott halts him in his path temporarily while Lenny reorients himself and dives for the pendant. Florian recovers quickly, though, and slips past Mott just in time to whack Lenny aside. Lenny retaliates in a flash. 

The battle swiftly morphs into a push and pull between their blinding speeds, a constant gain and loss of the upper hand. Every movement is made without hesitation and with a lightning fast pace. It’s a deadly dance in which one error could lead to a devastating loss. In the middle of it all, the pendant remains untouched. 

Not for long. 

Mott rushes forth, reaching a hand out to grab the jewel. He feels Florian’s gaze shoot to him, furious and wild, before Florian too darts for the pendant. Mott is no match for his speed; he knows the race is a lost cause. But in challenging Florian for the pendant, he distracted him just long enough for Lenny to land a dire blow, putting an end to their rapid dance of death. 

Florian, struck, goes flying out the window. The sound of shattering glass rings all around them as the window bursts into shards that crash to the floor. It’s so loud that Mott imagines all of the town could hear it. 

After that, silence. Silence and the heavy rise and fall of their labored breath. 

“What… what the hell was that?!” Torquil demands, throwing his hands in the air. He then winces at the motion, placing a hand over the cut on his shoulder. “You just threw Florian out the window, man!” 

“He had the stone,” Mott utters, his head still clouded by shock. Torquil makes a face at him like he’s speaking absolute gibberish, so he turns to Lenny with a feverishly grave expression and repeats, “He had the stone; he had it all this time. It was _him_.” 

He watches as his explanation dawns on Lenny—first the astonishment, then the disbelief, and finally the horror. 

“Uh, hello?” Torquil snaps, rubbing his arm. “Can someone explain to me what’s going on?” 

He doesn’t know why, but the thought of explaining all this to Torquil destroys him. The thought of breaking the news to him and fighting not to see that little tepig he used to know, with the large, sad eyes—it breaks him. Especially when he’d be thinking about the squeaking snivy they both used to know. 

Thankfully, Lenny explains everything. It doesn’t spare his heart all that much pain. He still has to watch as the veil is brutally torn from Torquil’s eyes and the gruesome truth is shoved in his face. By the end of it, Torquil’s expression of agonized terror and disbelief is enough to haunt Mott for the rest of his life. 

Torquil laughs. It’s an unsteady, broken sound; a nervous mimicry of amusement. “You’re joking. You’re joking, right Mott? It’s not funny, man, cut it out.” 

Neither Lenny nor Mott say a word. They simply share a grim glance, communicating nothing and everything. Torquil’s face falls and pales. 

“It’s not true,” he exhales, almost to himself. Then, more desperately: “It’s not; it’s just a misunderstanding!” Coming closer to Mott with an imploring, pleading smile, he begs, “Right? It’s all just a misunderstanding. I mean, come on—it’s Florian, we know him.” Choking, he repeats, “It’s _Florian_ , Mott, it’s just Florian!” 

“He has the stone,” Mott croaks, his voice raspy and rough. Torquil shakes his head, lost, muttering _no_ to himself over and over again. Clearing his throat, he says, “Grab the pendant, I’ll show you.” 

“Mott,” Lenny pipes up. Turning to him, he startles back at Lenny’s pale face. “The pendant is gone.” 

His heart stops. 

“What do you mean it’s—?” 

A bellow of thunder and a vicious bolt of lightning crash down on the city in the blink of an eye. The sheer volume rattles the heavens and quakes the earth, forcing Mott to grit his teeth and cover his ears. It doesn’t stop the ringing in his ears or the pounding in his head, as if the loud burst of noise shoved a storm into his skull. 

It’s so loud it’s almost blinding. 

It almost rips the breath from his lungs. 

When he comes to, he’s on the ground. So are Lenny and Torquil, still covering their heads. A storm is raging outside, with thunder and lighting and torrents of merciless rain. And just outside the window, Mott catches a glimpse of something that makes his stomach churn: Zekrom, thrashing just behind the surface of heavy, gray clouds, racing forward to the call of Florian and his stone. 

Their final battle has begun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and that's why. 
> 
> The end is near.


	22. The Mesa Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've arrived at the end of the quest. 
> 
> Everything will be coming to an end, soon. 
> 
> But not without a fight.

A furious roar splits the heavens, more fearsome than any boom of thunder. 

A strike of lightning in the distance gives rise to a rapidly growing fire. 

A collective scream rises from the town, civilians waking to the horrific sight of their impending doom. 

Their final battle has begun, and Mott isn’t ready for it. His heart is racing in his throat, yet it has come to a complete stop. The air is too thin for him to breathe, yet he finds himself breathing too fast. Everything he’s worked for has led up to this moment; yet, he hesitates. He’s frozen. 

All his preparations went toward defeating Zekrom. Not Florian. 

Not Florian. 

A deafening burst of thunder shakes the world, and Lenny screams, “Look out!” 

An instant later, a bolt of lightning strikes the base of the inn. The wooden walls crackle and burn at an ever-growing pace, the flame consuming everything in sight. Hot and furious, the blaze climbs through the window and begins crawling toward them. The smells and sounds of the burning building plunge Mott’s stomach as if hurling him back into the Roselake Museum. 

“We need to get out of here and evacuate everyone else!” He shouts over the roaring inferno. “Lenny, Torquil, work on getting everyone to safety; I’ll try to buy you times by putting out some of the fire!” 

Lenny nods, not wasting a second. He bounds over a smoldering fire that started in the hallway, racing down the corridor in a search for other residents. Right away, Mott focuses on the growing flames, targeting them with jets of water. The sheer heat in the room keeps his attacks from gaining their full potential, restricting them and making them weak. It takes several tries before a medium sized fire begins to dim. Meanwhile, Torquil stands, just as frozen as Mott had been, and gapes at the world around him. 

“I don’t understand,” Torquil utters, mostly to himself. Mott can barely hear him over the crackling and groaning of the building. “This can’t be happening.” 

Mott shoots another stream of water at the flames eating away at the rafters. “Go, go help Lenny!” 

“This can’t be happening,” Torquil repeats, in a daze. He stares at everything with wide eyes as if he’s in a dream. Then, with an almost delusional break in his voice, he says, “It’s just Florian, just _Florian_ —” 

The fire is closing in, and Mott isn’t strong enough to keep it at bay for much longer. “Snap out of it!” 

“He’s our friend,” Toriquil asserts, vehemently, as if he’s desperately trying to convince himself. “He’s Florian, he’s our friend, he wouldn’t—” 

“Torquil!” Mott shouts, and he snaps out of whatever trance he was in. “Go get everyone else out of the inn!” 

He nods, still somewhat in shock, and staggers out of the room. Mott prays he’ll be alright, and that he’ll be able to bring himself and others to safety. Then, he turns back to the blaze surrounding him. 

In a flash, he sees himself surrounded by the crumbling walls of the Roselake City museum. He sees the fire clawing its way up the bookcases; he sees the flames circling him on the smoldering carpet. His heart races with panicked fervor until he blinks and the nightmarish memory of the museum vanishes like smoke. But it doesn’t give way to a much better scene. 

The fire around him is too strong. It’s already swallowed up so much of the building that there’s no chance of him quelling it. At this point, all he can do is hope to slow it down so everyone can get out before the structure collapses. Hopefully, he can escape it, too. But if not, he better be ready to go down fighting. 

So, taking a deep breath, he musters up every scrap of aquatic power residing inside him and summons the largest jet of water he’s managed all night. 

It smashes into a looming cluster of flames, beating them down. Despite the heavy force of the water, the fire still simmers in place, dampened but not defeated. All around it, more flames continue to rage. And they’re closing in. 

He’s just about to blink the dark spots out of his eyes and force another stream of water when he hears a faint _Mott!_ Whipping his head around, he searches for the source until he spots it out the window: Lenny, standing beside Torquil and all the other inn residents, battered with rain. Cupping his hands to his face, he yells, “You’ve got to get out of there!” 

As if emphasizing his point, one of the beams overhead snaps and falls with a resounding _CRASH!_ He narrowly manages to avoid it, stumbling aside and nearly tripping into a wall of fire. Jerking back, he escapes the blaze, but not without singeing the tips of his fur. All around him, the creaking and groaning of the building grows louder, more insistent. Smashes and snaps can be heard throughout the floor as beams and walls topple down elsewhere. 

This place is coming down, with or without him inside. 

He turns to race out the door, only to find it consumed by the swarming blaze. Above him, another beam snaps, threatening to crush him in seconds. With no other way out and the ceiling starting to cave in on him, he barrels toward the window and lunges out just as the inn collapses in on itself. 

He hits the ground hard and comes to a rolling halt, every muscle in his body aching in protest. Hissing with pain, he slowly picks himself up just as Lenny comes racing over to him. Rainwater bombards them like sharp pellets of hail. Lenny’s hands are on him, cold and soaked to the bone. 

“Are you okay?” Lenny asks, a hand at his cheek. 

“Yeah,” Mott rasps, surprised at how hoarse his voice is. He wheezes and coughs for a minute before he can talk again. “You?” 

“I’m fine.” Turning back to the group of trembling, terrified inn residents, Lenny says, “We need to do something about them.” 

Mott nods in agreement, eyes turning up toward the stormy sky. He only needs to wonder for a second where Florian ran off to when he spies him on the back of the dragon, soaring through the air. “We need to do something about _him_.” To Torquil, he asks, “Can you take these people and anyone else you find to safety?” 

Torquil nods. He seems much more alert than before, although he’s fidgeting like an anxious wreck. Mott doesn’t blame him. 

“You’re all going to be okay,” Mott says to the people gathered, clutching each other in the war-like torrent. Looking to Lenny, he declares, “We’re going to end this.” 

Lenny meets his gaze and nods determinedly. 

Without a word, Lenny hops onto his back, and Mott takes off after the raging dragon. The rain pounds against him and floods the street, but it doesn’t slow him down. No, it invigorates him, shooting pulses of energy through his body with every splash of water his feet kick up. With no burning building standing between him and Zekrom, a surge of anticipation courses through him—anticipation like strength. He picks up speed. 

The minor boost in power won’t be enough to go toe to toe with a legendary dragon, however. He knows this. If he doesn’t want this battle to end like every other encounter he’s suffered through, he’s going to need a miracle. Divine intervention, perhaps. 

Or, a really, really good plan. 

Howling wind screams against them, tearing at their skin and fighting to push them back. Mott powers through it, straining himself to catch up with the rampaging beast. And it _is_ on a rampage, one unlike anything Mott has ever seen. It smashes buildings with reckless abandon, frying trees with bolts of lightning and toppling bridges and aqueducts in a show of chaotic destruction. With a hint of nausea, Mott wonders if this sight was the last thing Sapphire City saw before it’s decimation. 

He shakes that thought from his head. He can’t let this place be razed to the ground. He can’t let any other place be wiped off the face of the Earth—not again. But if he’s going to do that, he needs his fateful plan. 

His mind races itself dizzy in a frantic attempt of constructing some grand scheme—to no avail. No matter what angle he examines, he comes up with the same solution: failure. There’s no outcome to this that ends in victory; there’s no universe in which someone like him can defeat something like _this_. But goddamnit, he has to _try_. 

A bolt of lightning strikes dangerously close to his feet, so close that he can feel his hair stand on end and he can taste metal in his mouth. He screeches to a halt, bracing himself for another attack, but his ears are ringing so loud he’s not sure he’d be able to hear well enough to anticipate it. Luckily, he doesn’t have to rely on his sense of hearing, not when Zekrom swoops down from the clouds and into plain sight. On Zekrom’s back, he can just barely make out the blot of green puppeteering it. 

“ _Florian_!” He bellows, his voice cracking to be heard above the storm. 

He doesn’t know why he called out for him. If Florian can even hear him from so far away, he doubts it would accomplish anything. It’s not like they can sit down and talk something like this through. But a part of him wishes he could end this differently than he knows he has to. 

It’s a mystery whether Florian heard him or not. It’s a mystery whether he’d care or not. But what’s not a mystery is the imminent danger he poses to everyone, especially when he thrashes his tail outward and Zekrom mechanically smashes a fist into the street. A quake tremors through the earth from the collision, threatening to throw him off balance. He keeps his ground, though, refusing to lose footing when he’s holding Lenny. 

He braces himself for Zekrom’s inevitable attack, poised to dodge whatever is thrown his way—but it never comes. Instead, Zekrom turns and soars away from the center of town. Mott immediately recognizes this as the second mistake Florian has made tonight. If he had any hope of keeping his deadly secret, he should’ve wiped the whole town to ensure it never escaped. But that would mean killing Torquil and Mott, too. And he doesn’t think Florian is prepared to do that. 

It’s the only thing he has going for him: Florian’s hesitance. He doesn’t want to kill Mott. That might give him a chance at weakening Florian enough to put an end to this. But if there’s anything the Roselake Museum incident taught him, it’s that Florian does not have the same hesitation towards Lenny’s life. 

Mott nudges Lenny off, and despite his obvious confusion, Lenny goes along with it. Taking a few steps forward, Mott states, “I’m going after Florian alone. It’s safer that way. Go find Hilda and try and help the rest of the town evacuate.” 

With a deep frown, Lenny closes the distance between them. “Montgomery Alcott, you’re dumber than a sack of bricks if you think I’m letting you do this alone.” 

“I have a plan,” he lies, because how could he have ever planned for this, for a battle against a legendary being, for one of his closest childhood friends to be the villain of this story? “He won’t kill me. He can’t. If I keep chasing after him, eventually I'll run him down.” 

Lenny crosses his arms. “So, what, you’re doing this to protect me? I don’t think so. I’m coming along, whether you like it or not.” 

“Beating Zekrom is my mission, not yours,” he argues, turning away. Lenny stubbornly follows after him. Mott frowns, looking over his shoulder to frown at him and demand, “What are you doing?” 

“I thought I made myself pretty damn clear when I said I was coming along,” Lenny responds, standing his ground. 

“I already told you, beating Zekrom is my mission, and mine alone. I’m not dragging you into this.” 

“Remind me who snatched you out of the river after Zekrom nearly killed you, in a storm just like this?” Lenny snaps, throwing his hands outward as if gesturing to the catastrophe around them. “Remind me who dragged you to safety and nursed you back to health? Remind me who dove in front of a bolt of lightning that was about to kill you?” 

Mott winces at that last one, feeling it pierce straight through him. Lenny seems to sense it, as his expression softens. He takes a step forward, putting a hand on Mott’s arm, just over his bandana. 

“I’ve been here since the very beginning, and I’m not about to tuck tail and run now that it’s all coming to an end,” he says, his voice gentle. Somehow, Mott can still hear him over the raging storm, as if they’re the only two people that exist. A small, playful smile dances on his face. “Like it or not, you’re stuck with me now. I’ve got a mission of my own, you know.” 

Mott swallows the lump in his throat. “And what’s that?” 

“Ain’t I already told you?” Lenny asks, pressing in closer. “I want to be with you.” 

Thunder crashes all around them as his heart breaks. 

Lenny’s hand slides up and down the bandana on his arm as he continues, “Rain or shine, in sickness and in health—it don’t matter to me. My mission is to stick with you, and if that means saving your sorry butt from Zekrom for a third time, well then count me in.” 

A short laugh escapes him in spite of himself, and his forehead drops onto Lenny’s. Despite every instinct screaming at him to keep Lenny out of this, he knows there’s no use. Lenny is as stubborn as they come—a lesson he soon learned after being hung upside down from the roof of Lenny’s house. 

“Okay,” he relents, “come save my sorry butt.” 

Lenny grins, hopping back on board and holding on tight. Taking a deep breath and trying to ease the anxieties festering inside him, Mott takes off and resumes the chase. 

It’s not long before they enter a part of the town that Mott has never been in, before. Rather than the buildings and cobblestone streets and technology, this part of the town is heavily agricultural. The streets are fertile soil now turned to slick mud in the relentless rainpour, and the buildings are replaced with towering trees that host wooden houses in their branches. He’s sure it’s a gorgeous sight, and that knowledge somehow makes all this chaos seem even worse. The sight of townspeople screaming and fleeing what looks like a normally quaint and lively place brings pain to his heart. 

He can’t imagine that anyone is still asleep in their homes with all this pandemonium, but in case anyone is hiding inside, he shouts, “Everyone, evacuate to the town square! Go to the town square and meet the others!” All he can do is pray they hear him and listen as he dashes after Zekrom. 

“Where is Florian going?” Lenny wonders, his voice drowned out by the pouring rain. 

Mott squints, straining his eyes to see far enough through the thick mist of rain in order to catch a glimpse of Zekrom’s direction. It’s not until they reach a small clearing from the trees that he gets a decent idea of where Florian is headed. 

“The mesa,” he pants, exhausted. Still, he picks up the pace. Near the horizon, a mesa juts out of the ground and rises above the forest. Despite Zekrom’s occasional bouts of destruction or rampaging, the dragon maintains a rather steady path toward the mesa. Mott can only imagine that Florian is hoping to buy himself time on the mesa by forcing them to scale it. To Lenny, he asks, “Are you ready to climb?” 

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” 

By the time Zekrom lands on the mesa, it takes them another ten minutes just to reach the base. He worries that Florian will take off as soon as they do, but as of now, Zekrom hasn’t lifted off. When Lenny hops off, Mott takes a hold of a ledge and begins to pull himself up. Much like with running, his body isn’t really made for this sort of thing. But his strength is enough to back him up, and pulling his own weight isn’t as hard as he thought it would be. As for Lenny, he nimbly swings himself from ledge to ledge with **String Shot** , but he has to pause more often to catch his breath. 

With their own unique disadvantages, scaling the mesa proves to be an arduous task, and a dangerous one at that—there’s no room for error on a vertical cliffside. Everytime a rock gives under Mott’s hand or foot, his heart leaps into his throat. It takes every ounce of willpower to not look over his shoulder and watch the rocks plummet to the surface far below. 

By the time they finally drag themselves to the top of the mesa, Zekrom is still there. Mott hasn’t seen the beast this close in a long time, and the sight nearly gives him whiplash. But the ominous thrum of electricity pulsating from it keeps him gravely grounded. As he slowly takes in the sight, he realizes something horrifying: it’s eyes are trained directly on him. 

His heart nearly leaps out of his chest at the sight, and he braces himself for a sudden attack—but nothing comes. Zekrom remains as still as a statue, regarding him with cold indifference. The only indication that it’s even alive is the heavy, ragged rise and fall of its chest along with the sheer power emanating from it. 

After he manages to rip his eyes away from the dragon, he spots Florian. Florian doesn’t seem to see them, too preoccupied with pacing and muttering to himself in the rain. He rubs his family pendant anxiously, obsessively, as if it’s making his very heart beat. 

“ _Florian_!” Mott shouts, his voice turning almost to a beg. 

Florian whips around to face him, eyes wide. Mott can practically feel his pulse racing from over here. 

“Just come with us,” he pleads, taking a tentative step forward. Florian darts back. Halting and remaining incredibly still, he adds, “Come peacefully. Let’s figure this out, together.” 

Florian scoffs, a nervous parody of his characteristic arrogance. “Come with you? So I can be thrown in a prison? Left for a mob? Executed by the state? I don’t think so!” 

Mott doesn’t know what else to say, because he knows Florian deserves all those things, but he wishes more than anything that he didn’t. “Just come with us. We don’t want to fight.” 

Florian’s eyes flare with a wild fury, more expressive and uncontrolled than Mott has ever seen. “Oh, you don’t want to fight? How charming! Why didn’t you quit when I told you to, then?! Why didn’t you just listen to me when I told you to forget about your—your idiotic, stupid, suicidal quest?!” With a hint of desperation, Florian screams, “Do you think I _want_ to kill you?!” 

“No,” Mott says, his voice cracking once. “I know you don’t.” 

As if trying to regain whatever fraught composure he still has, Florian straightens his back out. “Then take my offer while it still stands: leave. Forget about all of this and go. _Now_.” 

A teary smile wavers onto Mott’s face in spite of himself. “And you know I can’t.” 

That frenzied rage returns to Florian’s expression, morphing it into something unrecognizable. “You’re truly going to die for your family pendant?!” 

The thought nearly makes him sick. “No,” he blurts without meaning to, an instinctive, visceral reaction. 

“Then what?!” Florian shrieks, his voice louder than the thunder. “What are you dying for?!” 

Florian’s words stop him in his tracks. He’s just as frozen as he was at the beginning of this mess. 

What is he dying for? That’s just the same question he’s been asking himself for months, isn’t it? 

_Why_ is he doing this? 

He doesn’t get much time to think about it. Because in the span of one second, two things happen: 

Lightning strikes all around them, lighting the forest ablaze. 

A single bolt strikes directly between Lenny and Mott, throwing them off the mesa—in separate directions. Lenny screams. 

And then he’s falling, falling, failing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! You can look forward to about another two chapters of the final battle before the quest is truly over. How do you think it will all end? Let me know in the comments! 
> 
> As always, thank you for following along with this story. Check back in next week for the update!


	23. The Mesa Battle II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II of the final battle...

When Mott lands, he’s lucky it’s in a tree, and not the ground. He’s also lucky that the tree isn’t on fire. Yet. But after tumbling through the branches and gritting his teeth through scrapes and cuts along the way, his collision with the ground isn’t pretty. It’s a harsh, muddy crash that shoots sharp pain through his bones and makes his skull rattle. The world around him spins, blurry and disorienting. All sounds are distant and tinny, as if they exist only in a dream. He can’t move.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, muddy and bloody and soaked and dead to the world. It could be hours, for all he knows. The only thing he’s certain of is that when he finally comes to, the fire has grown even closer, even stronger, and even hotter. 

Staggering to his feet, he forces his swimming head to be alert. Fire swirls all around him. The crackle and pop of smoldering pine hisses in the air; smoke rises up and blots out the sky. The intense blaze rages all around him like a cage, trapping him, suffocating him. The forest is so hot, unbearably hot, hotter than the smoldering wreckage of Sapphire City or the inside of the flaming museum in Roselake. It’s so hot in spite of the pouring rain, in spite of the thick mud. 

The fire is all-consuming, swirling around them like a furious storm. Flames shoot up trees like wicks; the smell of burning leaves chokes him. Homes that had nestled themselves safely in the branches of the trees are long gone, now. It won’t be long before Lenny is in the same state. 

Lenny. Oh, god, _Lenny_. 

A horrible, sickening sense of déjà vu dawns on him, creeping up his spine. His eyes are drying out, but he’s too afraid to close them—too afraid that if he does, he might open his eyes and be surrounded by the crumbling, burning walls of the Roselake Museum. 

For the second time in his life, he’s forced to confront the possibility of Lenny burning alive—and it reintroduces him to terror he’s desperately tried to forget. 

“Lenny!” He shouts, his voice crackling and hoarse. But it’s no use. The fire is too loud. The trees are creaking and groaning and snapping around him; trunks fall, houses fall, and Mott suffers a brief image of Lenny being crushed under the flaming wreckage. He shakes his head to rid himself of the haunting thought, but it sticks like a parasite. Again, he bellows, “ _Lenny_!” 

Roaring flames and the rushing of his own blood in his ears drowns out any other sound. 

He’s met with nothing. 

The pounding of his heart spurs him into action, because if he stood still for even a second longer, he’s sure his heart would beat itself straight out of his chest. Without a plan or direction, he leaps over a fallen tree, racing through the burning woods and yelling, “Lenny, where are you?!” 

God only knows how long he runs. It’s a grueling, arduous struggle to run through smoke and thin air and unholy heat, but his body almost feels numb to the strain. It’s his mind that’s painfully aware of everything: the hungry consumption of the inferno, the shriveling and charring of life, the sheer _danger_. His mind absorbs it all with agonizing clarity and forces him to press on, refusing to settle until he finds Lenny. 

He shouts as he runs, his throat growing rough and raw. It’s not until he gets deeper into the woods that he hears his first response: a small, feeble, _help_! Desperate and frantic, his heart leaps into his throat. 

“Lenny?!” He cries, racing around the bend. 

Not Lenny. His heart sinks, but only for a moment, because then he realizes who he’s seeing. 

“Anastasia!” He exclaims, rushing over to her. She’s covered in burns and soot; her eyes are wide and terrified. “What are you doing out here?” 

“My family and I were helping the people of the forest evacuate,” she explains, her voice a tremulous facade of it’s usual composure. Her breathing is ragged and stricken with horror. “A large tree with several houses in its branches fell toward Amari, and Hilda jumped in the way and—they’re both stuck!” 

He wants, more than anything, to find Lenny and bring him back to his side. But there’s no way he’s turning a blind eye to this. 

“Show me,” he orders, and hurries after her as she leads the way. 

When they reach the scene, Mott has to stifle a mortified gasp. They’re in a rocky clearing with few trees, save the giant one fallen and roasting on the ground. With the entire thing consumed in flame, it’s almost too bright to bear looking at. But when he does, he spots two small figures trapped between the blazing branches. Hilda braces herself against the smoldering branch, enduring the burns and the weight it presses into her. Underneath her, Amari holds their hands over their head and sobs. 

Mott and Anastasia rush over. “Hilda, we’re gonna get you out of there!” 

Hilda looks up at him, her eyes vacant and weary. Yet, something of a small smile tugs onto her face. “Was wondering when you would show up. Big Bastard.” 

“Don’t make me change my mind, jackass,” he retorts, summoning a swell of aquatic power. 

He forces a strong, steady stream of water despite the sweltering heat, dousing the branches around them. With the fire closest to them dimmed, Amari is able to squeeze through the tight spaces of the branches and escape. They waddle fearfully over to Anastasia, who grips them tight. 

“Mama?” Amaria croaks, their voice unnaturally quieted by raspiness. They sob at the sight of Hilda still trapped under the wreckage. 

“If all three of us lift,” Anastiasa starts, gesturing to herself, Mott, and Hilda, “we ought to be able to lift it off her.” 

Mott’s gaze darts to the tree skeptically. He’s not sure he’s ever seen a tree this size, both in height and thickness of the trunk. But they don’t have many options; and besides, if anyone is going to be able to lift a massive tree, it’s probably Hilda. 

“Let’s do it,” he agrees, crouching under a branch and bracing his shoulders to lift. “Three, two, one!” 

He and Hilda lift from the shoulders while Anastasia uses her telekinetic powers. His muscles tremble and sweat drips down his brow, but the tree only lifts a fraction of an inch. Anastasia, with clear strain in her voice, barks, “Harder!” 

Gritting his teeth, he forces his legs to go beyond their comfort zone. He’s painfully aware that they’re quickly losing time—the heat of the surrounding fire is rapidly redrying the doused branches, and it won’t be long before they can begin to burn again. The tree only lifts another inch. 

Not enough. 

The fire begins to creep back onto the branches. 

“Mama!” Amari cries, waddling up to the tree. Puffing out their chest, their voice returns to them as they bellow, “I’LL SAVE YOU!” 

With that proclamation, they plant their little hands on the trunk and push. With their puny size and strength, Mott can’t feel anything change. But from Hilda’s perspective, it seems to mean the world. Her eyes glimmer with new light, and with a sudden, powerful roar, she lifts herself up with a newfound strength, throwing the tree effortlessly off her back. 

It crashes to the ground with a deafening _thud,_ trembling the earth below his feet. Exhausted and relieved, Mott releases a heavy exhale and catches his breath. A cry of relief escapes Anastasia and she hurries to Hilda’s side. 

“I DID IT!” Amari exclaims as they’re tossed onto Hilda’s back. “I SAVED THE DAY!” 

“You did,” Mott agrees, still somewhat breathless. Nudging Amari fondly, he adds, “Now, go with your moms to the town square and help the people there. Okay?” 

“I WILL!” Then, patting Mott’s head consolingly, they assure, “YOU DID AN OKAY JOB, TOO. THANKS FOR YOUR HELP!” 

That startles a snort of amusement out of him. “Thanks.” To Hilda, he requests, “If you guys find Lenny, tell him to go to the town square. The fire isn’t safe for him.” 

“You know he won’t,” Hilda rumbles, “not if you’re here.” 

Mott looks up at the mesa looming overhead. “I won’t be here for long.” 

With that, they wish each other luck and split. Hilda and her family make the journey back to the town while Mott rushes back to the mesa. When he reaches the base and clutches the first ledge, he closes his eyes and hopes more than anything that he’s not leaving Lenny behind to die. Then, opening his eyes, he determinedly pulls himself up. 

The climb is more treacherous than the first time. He’s weak from the falling, the running, and the lifting of the tree. His body screams in protest with every move he makes, threatening to break down on him at any moment. The smoke stings his eyes, swirling around him in a chokehold. Wind howls past him as if it wants to strip him from the cliffside. It nearly does, a few times—but everytime his grip slips, he somehow manages to cling to another rock just before plummeting to his certain doom. 

He was lucky enough to fall into a lush, full tree the first time. With the fire raging below him, he won’t be as lucky a second time. 

By the time he finally drags himself to the top, his chest is heaving with ragged, short breath. He nearly collapses into a heap as soon as it’s safe, panting with exhaustion. When he looks up, he’s met with the same sight as before—only slightly worse. 

Zekrom looms over him, it’s red eyes daunting and all-seeing. It’s as if the dragon is peering into his very soul. But when he turns to Florian, he’s the complete opposite. It’s as if he doesn’t see Mott at all. He’s too busy pacing, muttering to himself in a manner that Mott can only describe as deranged. The sight of Florian so haggard and disheveled is almost terrifying. 

He remembers, not too long ago, when he viewed Florian as an unattainable ideal. Now, he can only see what Torquil had seen before: sadness. Florian isn’t a paragon of perfection—he’s a man broken under family pressure and driven to desperate measures. 

When Florian spots him, he jerks back in frightened surprise. His face twists into a hideous vision of misshapen fury. 

“ _Why_?!” He cries, his voice shrill and manic. “Why do you keep coming back?!” 

Breathless, Mott has no time to answer before Florian thrusts his pendant into the air. The stone glows with an ominous, purple light, and in turn, Zekrom’s glossy eyes flicker with life for an instant. Mechanically, the dragon rises from the mesa, soaring down toward the forest with a deafening roar. A bolt of lightning parts the sky and strikes down in the middle of the forest, sparking more fires into a full inferno. 

Leaving Zekrom to wreaking havoc there, Florian lunges forward at the speed of light. Mott narrowly dodges, the rush of air as Florian passes him by shivering down his spine. Snatching his scalchop, he slashes it outward just in time to bring it down on Florian’s side. It’s a solid, direct hit, throwing Florian off balance and forcing him to retreat. 

Mott can’t remember the last time he landed a hit on Florian in a serious match. Either he’s gotten better, or Florian is losing his grip. 

Whichever it is, Florian doesn’t like it. He ups his game and lashes out with greater speed and greater violence. Mott blinks once and Florian is suddenly behind him, closing in for a rebound strike. Mott has no time to react, and he’s hit. 

With everything he’s been through tonight, the blow hurts harder than it should and sends him slamming down to the ground. In a blur, Florian strikes again, again, and again; he’s so fast that Mott can’t even see him. Florian lashes out with one final blow and sends Mott skidding across the ground. He grits his teeth at the sharp rocks that tear into his side, grunting with pain when he collides with a lone boulder. Anymore hits like this, and he might not be able to get back up. 

Still, he forces himself up. With trembling legs and a spinning head, he struggles to find his feet. He raises himself halfway up before staggering back. Falling against the rock, he braces himself on it and fights the darkness threatening to close in on his vision. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, trying to reorient himself. All the while, Florian watches him with taut hesitance, his pupils narrow and his eyes rimmed red. 

“Just stay down,” Florian orders, angry and commanding. Mott thinks he can hear a hint of pleading in there, too. That makes his heart break. “It’s for your own good.” 

One of Mott’s legs buckles under him, threatening to topple him to the ground. Florian doesn’t move, instead remaining eerily still, as if he’s deciding what to do with him. A frantic, heartstopping thought strikes him: is this it? Is this the end of it all? Is he really going to end this quest the way he began it; losing a battle against Florian? 

Did he really come all this way just to fail? 

Lightning strikes all around, shaking the mesa to its very core. 

Before Florian can decide what to do with him, Mott catches a glimpse of a figure in the corner of his eye. When he manages to clear his vision enough to see, he’s astonished to see none other than Torquil dragging himself up onto the mesa. 

“Florian!” Torquil wails, his voice hoarse and pleading. Just like he had when Mott returned, Florian startles back at the sight of Torquil. With equal parts rain and tears rolling down his face, Torquil begs, “End this, please!” 

Torquil barely makes it a step toward him before Florian lashes out. He lunges forth and bats Torquil away, forcing him to the ground. He collapses near Mott, gritting his teeth in clear pain. 

“Stop fighting, both of you!” Florian screams over the howling wind. “You know I will beat you!” 

Shaking himself off, Mott bends down to help Torquil back up. Leaning on each other, they struggle back to their feet. Mott meets Florian’s gaze, grim and determined. Florian’s expression morphs into something livid yet anguished. 

“Stop! You’re being irrational!” The words tremble off his tongue, sharp but achingly vulnerable. 

He lashes out, striking them back. They collide with the boulder so forcefully that it splits in two, like a jagged bolt of lightning down the middle. Despite the dizziness in his vision and the rattling in his skull, Mott staggers back to his feet. Beside him, Torquil does the same. In a fearful, furious fit, Florian’s tail thrashes. 

“I said stop this! Do you both have a death wish?! Stop and once, you, you…” There’s a crack in his voice. With sinking dread, Mott realizes that he’s crying. “… stop, please? I don’t—I don’t know what to do…” 

Florian shudders, a broken sob echoing into the night. The storm rages overhead, but it pales in comparison to what’s happening on the mesa. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Florian repeats, devastated and desperate. Tears run down his face. “Please, just stop, I don’t know what to do…” 

Mott eyes sting, blurry and wet. A single tear slips down. “You do know what to do. You can put an end to this, right now.” 

Florian stares at him. Deep in his eyes, Mott can see the snivy he used to know: the one that was short for his age but always held his head high, hiding the bruises on his wrists while he clumsily put bandages over Mott and Torquil’s little scrapes. He wishes for nothing more than to see that Florian again. 

But then Florian’s expression hardens, and Mott knows that version of Florian is gone. Rather, he has been for a long time. 

“You don’t _understand_ ,” Florian hisses between his tears, his voice venomous and brittle. “You don’t have the weight, the burden, the goddamn expectations of everyone on this hellhole of a planet on your shoulders! End this? How can I end this when this is the only thing keeping me ahead of the rest?!” 

With that, Florian raises his pendant once more, summoning Zekrom with a haunting purple glow. 

A distant roar echoes from beyond the dark clouds, followed by a boom of thunder. Electricity charges in the air, growing more tense and dangerous frantic with every passing second. He can practically taste metal in the air. By the time Zekrom swoops in from above the clouds, Mott’s fur is standing on end. 

“I will end this,” Florian seethes, one last tear dripping down his face. “You just won’t like how I do it!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Rough chapter. I don't really know what to say. 
> 
> How do you think this will end? For Mott? For Lenny? For Florian? For Torquil? Let me know what you all think. 
> 
> As always, please check in next week for the update. Thank you all for reading!


	24. The Mesa Battle III

Zekrom soars overhead, a powerful gust of wind following in its wake. The sheer force of it nearly knocks Mott clean off his feet, but he manages to keep balance by gripping onto Torquil. Based on how tightly he’s grasped in return, Mott guesses the only thing keeping them both upright is each other. 

Gliding back around, Zekrom faces them with a dead gaze. Electricity courses through it, lighting up the sky with such fearsome energy that Mott can feel it sparking down to his bones. With a raging bellow, the dragon unleashes a surging charge upon them. 

When it strikes them, all he can see is blinding white. 

The lightning rushes through every nerve, electrifying it, fraying it, burning it. He can taste metal in his mouth, blood in his mouth, and then nothing. His ears ring and his other senses grow numb and dead. He’s detached from himself, the pain so overwhelmingly potent that he almost can’t feel it. 

Then Torquil’s hand slips off his arm, and he feels everything again. 

He feels _everything_ , but nothing is as strong as the bitter, overpowering taste of fear he gets when he realizes that Torquil is falling away. Falling away, no longer capable of leaning on him. Falling away, closer and closer to the edge of the mesa. 

“Torquil!” He shouts over the last crackles of dying electricity, his throat bloody and raw. 

Torquil staggers back, burnt and bloodied. His eyes are wide, scared; his hand reaches feebly out toward him and Florian—

And then, with a resounding crash of thunder, he falls. 

“ _Torquil_!” He howls, falling to a knee in a failed attempt to rush to the edge. He already knows it’s no use. The edge of the cliff is as empty as the smoky horizon. Torquil is gone. Still, he cries, “Torquil!”

He catches a glimpse of Florian’s expression and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Florian is pale and haggard and broken, staring at the spot where Torquil was as if waiting for him to climb back up. 

But he’s not climbing back up. They both know that. 

“You should’ve just stopped when I told you to,” Florian utters, barely speaking over the rumble of thunder. He’s hunched over himself like he’s about to collapse from an invisible weight on his shoulders. “You should’ve forgotten about your stupid quest, moved on with your life! But you didn’t, because _of course_ you didn’t, and now look what you’ve done!” 

Mott forces himself back to his feet. It’s getting harder and harder with every second. 

“Torquil didn’t have to die! Your halfwitted commoner friend didn’t have to die!” Florian proclaims, sounding more and more delusional with every word. “But you just wouldn’t stop, and you weren’t even strong enough to protect them!” 

Hearing Florian blame him for his own damn choices breaks what little patience he had left. His rage spikes, and in a fury, he lunges out with his scalchops slashing. Florian evades effortlessly, dodging and ducking from every swipe. 

“Why?!” Florian demands, lashing out with a tail. Mott stumbles back but does not fall. He keeps a tight grip on his scalchop. “Why wouldn’t you quit this—this suicidal quest? _Why_?!” 

The question rings in his head, haunting and unbearably loud: _why_? 

In a bland fury, he resumes his attack. No matter how Mott hacks and slashes, his attempts always turn up futile. 

_Why_? 

Florian snarls as he darts aside from another blow. No matter what Mott does, his struggles always prove useless. 

_Why?_

Useless, useless, _useless_ —

Florian lands a direct hit, shooting pain through Mott’s entire body as he crashes to the rocky floor. Thunder booms overhead with a simultaneous flash of lighting. Above him, Florian towers, his tail swishing with anticipation. 

“You should’ve given up while you still had the chance,” Florian hisses, shadows covering his face. “For someone who does nothing but fail, you sure don’t know when to quit.” 

He tries to force himself back up, but he can’t. His legs are too weak and his body wants to shut down. Blackness threatens to seep into his vision. 

Worthless. 

Florian slithers toward him menacingly. “Did you really think someone like you would stand a chance against someone like me?” 

Above him, Zekrom looms in the stormy sky. Red eyes hone in on him with chilling perception. Even if Mott were able to perform some miraculous feat and get back on his feet, what’s stopping Zekrom from shooting him right back down? Nothing.

Useless. 

A sudden strike of Florian’s tail knocks Mott back. He’s sure he almost passes out on the spot, based on the way his vision swims and his ears ring. He can taste blood in his mouth after that hit, and it wasn’t even one of Florian’s best. 

No-good waste of time. 

The storm rages above him. He’s done nothing to stop it. Thunder still crashes and lightning still strikes despite his best efforts. All around, the forest fire burns on. Trees and homes and fertile crops go up in smoke. And he’s done nothing to stop it. 

A memory flashes before him, unbidden: Hilda trapped beneath a tree; the panic and helplessness that had gripped his heart. That feeling stirs within him now, swirling and growing and racing. The only comforting thought is the reminder that Hilda is safe with her family, no longer trapped under a burning tree. 

He couldn’t stop the fire from burning, but he could save Hilda. 

He opens his eyes, and the world seems a little clearer. 

“Just stay down,” Florian insists, turning his back on him. “You weren’t going to be able to do anything, anyways.” 

He couldn’t stop the storm from destroying the inn. But he could save the people inside. 

He props himself on a knee, shakily rising. 

Florian glances over his shoulder, scowling at the sight. “You’re pathetic. After all that, you’re still going to blunder your way through his one-sided match?” 

He can’t beat Florian. He can’t beat Zekrom. But he’s trying. He’s fucking _trying_ , and that’s good enough. 

He’s good enough. 

Standing, facing a livid Florian and a callous Zekrom, he rasps, “You. Me. Duel for honor. Now.” 

Florian’s expression twists into a sneer of disgust. “You have no honor left.” 

“Then prove it to me,” he demands, taking a step forward. “Beat me senseless. But you better do it here and now, or else I’ll never stop trying to beat you.” 

“Always so damn impatient,” Florian growls, turning back to him while trembling with rage. Taking a battle stance, he says, “I suppose I’ll indulge you this one last time.”

In a flash, Florian pounces, poised to land a devastating blow. There’s no chance of Mott escaping it. So he does what he can—he braces himself to take the hit and hopes to god it doesn’t end the battle. But before Florian’s attack can make contact, there’s a blur out of the corner of his eye. When he blinks, Florian is knocked aside and rolling across the ground. In his place stands the one person Mott has been aching to see more than anything. 

“Lenny!” he cries, delighted and relieved. 

Lenny turns back to him, a bright smile on his face. A quick glance over him reveals no serious injuries, only a few scrapes and burns here and there. A weight lifts off his heart as though he can finally breathe again. 

Apparently, the same can not be said for Lenny. His eyes roam over Mott with increasing horror. “Mott, you need—” 

Their reunion doesn’t get to continue in peace. In an instant, Florian is back on the scene, lashing out at Lenny. Lenny narrowly avoids the hit and counters with one of his own. Florian’s exhaustion and desperation throws him off his game, and Lenny lands another direct strike. Hissing in pain, Florian leaps into the battle with greater ferocity. 

The two of them move with such blinding speed that there’s hardly room for air between them. As much as he wants to help Lenny, he worries that he might misplace his attack and hit Lenny by accident. But that doesn’t mean he can just stand here. The pendant is still looped between Florian’s tail, and the stone is pulsating with a daunting purple glow. Above them, Zekrom’s eyes flicker back to life. 

Zekrom charges up a sphere of electricity so potent and overwhelming that Mott can feel the static from here. He knows what Florian plans to do with it: eliminate his most dangerous competition. He’s going to try and burn Lenny to death, for good this time. 

The crackling ball of energy grows as large as Mott himself, and then it gets even bigger. It’s twice as massive as the one at the Roselake City Museum. It’s deadly. It’s lethal. And it’s aimed right at Lenny. 

Zekrom launches it and Florian darts away from the confrontation. Lenny is only left a split second to freeze in confusion before he spots the mass of electricity hurtling toward him. He sees Lenny’s thin silhouette in the harsh glare of lightning, growing ever smaller. 

No, not this time. 

Not this time. This time, Mott lunges in front of Lenny, raising his scalchop high to deflect the strike. 

Power surges in the air, buzzing through his entire body. His bones rattle and his veins rush and his nerves fire; the sheer energy of the attack nearly burns his skin. But he stands firm, relentless, glaring Zekrom down as the attack fizzles out. Off to the side, he catches a glimpse of Florian as he stares petrified at the sight. Mott thinks he must be imagining things, because he swears he spies a hint of surprise in Zekrom’s eyes. 

“Lenny,” Mott pants, not taking his eyes off Zekrom, “you take Florian and get the pendant. I’ll keep Zekrom distracted.” 

Lenny’s eyes flit anxiously to the dragon and back. “You know you can’t beat it.” 

“I don’t need to.” From the start of this journey, he knew defeating the legendary Zekrom was a lost cause. Yet he still demanded success from himself, impossible success. He’s not doing that anymore. “I just need to buy you time,” he explains, turning to Lenny. “So that _you_ can end it.” 

They lock gazes, and a wave of understanding passes through them both. It’s as if Mott is communicating to him without words. _Defeat Florian. Take the pendant. End this._ Lenny’s eyes harden with determination, and he nods. 

“Be safe,” Lenny says. 

Mott grins in spite of himself. “You know I won’t.” 

And with that, they leap into action. 

Zekrom roars as Mott charges at it, lightning crackling through its body like glowing veins. With every step closer he takes, the air grows more and more charged with buzzing electricity. He could almost imagine a bolt of lightning sparking out of nowhere from the sheer tension alone. Then Zekrom swoops down and Mott rushes forward, and his first true battle with a legend officially begins. 

It starts with a quake of thunder so loud that the heavens and the earth shake as one. Mott refuses to be thrown off balance, instead lunging forward with his scalchop in hand. When Zekrom shoots downward to snap its jaws at him, Mott narrowly evades and digs his weapon into the dragon’s shoulder. It barely pierces the thick layer of scaly armor, but it’s enough for Mott to thrust himself onto the back of Zekrom as the beast takes to the sky. 

Gripping tight to his scalchop, he firmly embeds it in the back of Zekrom’s shoulder in order to stay secure. Wind and rain pound against him, fighting to rip him off and send him plummeting to the ground below. A furious bellow erupts from Zekrom, shaking its whole body like an earthquake. Mott clings on for dear life, stabbing his weapon down further as he summons his aquatic powers. 

As he’s mustering all the power at his disposal, he catches a glimpse of green on the mesa. The battle between Lenny and Florian is fraught and cutthroat; neither can give an inch for fear that it would be the last mistake they’d ever make. Their speed rivals the lightning striking around them. He could almost imagine a tornado building due to their rapid swirls of dodges and blows. 

It’s a match that could easily belong to either of them. Mott is both comforted and haunted by the thought. 

Before he can think about it much longer, Zekrom suddenly shifts in flight, soaring upside down. The sickening and terrifying sense of vertigo slams into his gut as Zekrom suspends him in midair. His scalchop is slowly sliding out of Zekrom’s skin; Mott scrambles to hold on, but the scales are too smooth to gain any leverage. He makes the mistake of looking down and is met with the sight of burning forest hundreds of feet below. 

The scalchop slips out completely. 

With nothing to grab onto, Mott pushes himself off Zekrom’s back and launches himself toward the mesa, shooting a jet of water at Zekrom’s eye as he falls. The beast roars from the impact and flounders in its flight path, careening sharply downward. Zekrom collides with the edge of the mesa, bellowing with rage, and slides down the cliffside and into the blazing woods. 

Mott only has a brief moment to gawk at the blow he landed before the ground comes hurtling toward him. 

Frantically, he turns himself in midair and ejects a stream of water straight at the ground, hoping to slow his descent even the slightest bit. It works, but not enough to keep him from crashing painfully to the mesa’s surface. The impact results in an agonizing _snap_ that he desperately doesn’t want to think about, but the sharp, shooting pain that follows is impossible to ignore. It startles a shout of anguish from him as he clutches his side, gritting his teeth through the throbbing pain. 

Flat in the dirt, all he can do to stay conscious is lay there and breathe for a few minutes. Each breath burns with a vengeance. He definitely broke something, probably a rib—maybe a few—but he has to push on. Lenny hasn’t beaten Florian yet. The sounds of their battle are just as fierce and merciless as before. Until Lenny wins, Mott has to have his back. 

When his breathing evens out again, and the sharp agony becomes more manageable, he forces himself to his feet. He winces and takes it in small increments, but still hurts like hell. And lucky him, the moment he turns his head, he sees the last thing he ever wanted to see: Zekrom soaring back upward, sparks of fire and smoke in its wake. It locks its eyes on him, furious, eager for payback. 

Shit. 

Meanwhile, out of the corner of his eye, he spots something: a slip in Florian’s composure, a momentary hesitance, a stumble. Lenny leaps on it in an instant, slashing out with fervor and striking Florian back. As Florian tumbles to the side, wounded, the pendant clatters out of his grasp. 

On Mott’s other side, Zekrom begins to charge a fearsome sphere of lightning. 

Florian doesn’t stay on the ground for long. He lunges up the moment Lenny gets a hand on the pendant and snaps into action, coiling viciously around him, enough to make Mott worry that Lenny might snap in half. Florian darts to snatch the pendant back. 

“Mott!” Lenny cries, his voice choked out by Florian’s tightening grip. With his free arm, he throws the pendant. “Switch!” 

The pendant soars through the air, glowing so potently it’s nearly vibrating. The light of Zekrom’s growing electric charge reflects off the stone. 

_This was not the plan,_ Mott wants to protest as he watches the pendant fly toward him. But then Florian shoots away from Lenny, chasing after the stone, and Mott does the same. 

Zekrom roars behind him, preparing to launch the attack. 

He and Florian charge at each other, the pendant perfectly between them. Static builds in the air, so overwhelming that it’s hard to breathe. 

Behind Florian, Lenny climbs back to his feet, eyes wide at the sight. 

Florian’s faster; with the pendant equally between them there’s no competition about who will get there first. If something doesn’t change, this will all be for naught. 

But he’s not doing this alone. He never has been, it just took him this long to realize it. Behind Florian, Lenny shoots a stream of **String Shot,** catching him at the tail and yanking him back. Florian slams to the ground, writhing, eyes wide and feverish and delusional, as Mott reaches up and catches the pendant. 

Immediately, an unnameable force rushes into him. It’s as if the light from the stone is racing through his veins, pulsating at a beat just slightly off from his heart. The internal discord is unfamiliar and bizarre, and it nearly threatens to unravel him, but he pulls himself together. The strange force thrums in his head, splitting his skull, and somehow Mott translates this unnatural pain into words. 

_what do you desire?_

“What?” He utters, breathless. He feels as though he’s submerged underwater; the atmosphere around him is thick and wrong. He can barely see Florian thrashing against Lenny’s binds through a smoggy cloud of purple and black. Almost impatiently, the voice shoots through him again, with a sear of burning pain. 

_why do you_ _summon me?_

_what motivates you_? 

He grips the stone tight. What motivates him? His knuckles ache around the pendant; the sharp edges of it cut into his pam. The question pounds into his head, screaming in his veins. _What motivates you, what motivates you, what motivates you?_

Something deep inside him simmers, something that he never knew was there. It’s restless, demanding attention, demanding recognition as it surges to the surface. It’s so strong that he nearly keels over from the sheer rush of it overtaking his senses. 

What motivates him? 

What motivates him? 

What motivates him?

The answer bursts out of him like a pent up dam, loud and instinctive and guttural: “ _I want to help people_!” 

Instantaneously, something is drawn out of him. The purple glow rushes through his vision and pierces deep into the marrow of his bones, and just as quickly it vanishes. It seeps back into the stone, settling inside like a calm pool in the center of an untouched forest. The pain, the voice, the strange sensation flood out of him all at once. He’s left swaying on his feet, blinking and dazed as the stone hums in his hand. 

The rain begins to let up. It softens from a relentless pour to a gentle shower. The thunder and lightning begin to retreat, steady enough to be gone within the hour. Even the clouds begin to part just enough for Mott to see the horizon turning gold with a new day. 

There’s an ancient presence behind him. He senses it with every fiber of his being. Spinning around, he comes face to face with Zekrom—but the menace that had once radiated off the dragon in waves is now gone. Zekrom looks down at him with the same red eyes, only Mott catches a hint of golden sunrise shining in them. 

The strange voice returns to him one last time, although no pain comes with it. 

_thank you._

Then, Zekrom closes its eyes, fading to purple light as it is summoned back into the stone, returned once more to its peaceful slumber. The stone pulses in his hand like a heartbeat, gradually becoming slower and fainter until it fades entirely. The purple glow is replaced with a black, opaque luster and now appears to be nothing more than a regular stone. 

The stone feels impossible heavy in his hand when he realizes: it’s over. It’s all over. 

For some reason, that discovery nearly makes him weep. 

Instead, he looks up at Lenny, who is running through the rain to him. He takes a few steps toward Lenny before he’s tackled in a hug. He staggers back a step, which reinforces just how exhausted he is, because normally Lenny could never knock him back. But he doesn’t care about that. All he cares about is wrapping his free arm—the one gripping the pendant—around Lenny’s waist and holding him tight. 

They embrace in the rain, holding each other as the forest fires slowly die out. Smoke rises and joins the rumbling clouds above. Neither of them say a word; the only sound they make is their ragged, weary breathing. 

It’s over. It’s all over. 

On the ground, far off from them, Florian lies. The rain pours down on him and he allows it, muddy and bloody and pitiful. He’s so eerily still that Mott could almost believe he’s dead. Then, he shifts. A low sound rises out of him, something strange and disjointed. With a spine-chilling shiver, Mott realizes he’s laughing. 

Florian laughs at the stormy sky, loud and broken and wrong. Snapped. He writhes in the muck and howls at the sky, his cackles echoing throughout the storm. 

Releasing him, Lenny turns to face Florian, clearly perturbed by the chilling display. Mott doesn’t blame him. His blood is curdling at the sight, trying to connect the person he sees to the person he used to know. He can’t do it. 

At the far edge of the mesa, something steals Mott’s attention. A large hand grips onto the ledge, covered in blood and dirt. It’s followed by another, and then by a face and body Mott thought he’d never see again. 

Torquil. 

He shouts for him, elated and relieved, but Torquil doesn’t seem to hear him. His focus is entirely wrapped around Florian, who’s howls of deranged glee have twisted into hysterical sobs. Without a moment to lose, Torquil staggers toward him, blood dripping from his wounds, and falls to his knees beside Florian. He falls on top of the broken serperior, clinging tightly to him as silent tears begin to roll down his cheeks. Florian’s own weeping breaks off into abrupt silence. He then closes his eyes as if willing himself to die. 

Lenny looks away from the gruesome scene. Mott does the same, focusing his gaze on the ground. He’s all too aware of the stinging tears slipping down his face, especially when Lenny cups his cheek and pulls him close. 

They embrace. Mott looks to the heavens, where thunderlight illuminates the sky. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE DROP!!!
> 
> And so the final battle comes to its conclusion. What do you think? Was this how you expected it to go down? How do you feel now that it's all over? 
> 
> As always, thank you for taking the time to read! I really appreciate every reader I have, and I love talking to you all when you comment! The last chapter will be wrapping things up as well as an epilogue, so look forward to that next week!


	25. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are... the final chapter. I hope you all enjoy.

Grief is a cruel thing. It’s a suffering unlike any other, a deep, piercing agony that strikes down to the marrow. The suffering in it grows with a slow, creeping pace until it steadily consumes. It’s the only emotion Mott can think of that can cause such a dire physical ache. 

It’s recoverable, Lenny says. Mott knows he’s right, but that doesn’t mean the thought feels at all possible. 

Stawford Town is grieving, just like all of them are. Buildings are in shambles, crops are destroyed, and bridges are toppled. Lives have been interrupted, and some have been lost. Each and every citizen had lost something that night, even if it was just their innocence. A month has passed since the incident. Mott still hurts like it was yesterday. 

But Stawford Town is also recovering. They’ve banded together, strongest in their vulnerability, and set out to mend what has been broken. The streets have been cleared. The wreckage has been dealt with. Useful materials have been salvaged from the destruction. Some things can’t be fixed, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be soothed. With a community of aching hearts to surround oneself with, it’s almost impossible to go without comfort or consolation. 

Recovery, ironically, is a lot like grief. It works at a slow, creeping pace until it steadily soothes the lingering sting into a gentle ache. Unfortunately, grief is an easy slippery slope to fall into. Recovery is all uphill. 

It helps to have friends who are walking alongside. 

Mott and Torquil sit on the outskirts of the town in silence. They’d been going on a walk, trying to regain strength in their wounded bodies when they decided to sit and take a break. They’ve been staring out at the open pasture ever since. Mott wonders if they’re both thinking about better days as they gaze at the flowers. 

Torquil is heavily bandaged up, including a broken arm. Mott’s rib still aches but is gradually getting better. There was nothing the medics could do about their hearts. 

“You remember Nesta?” Torquil asks, breaking the silence. 

Nesta is Florian’s younger sister by a year. She’s just barely turned twenty. “Yeah. What about her?” 

“She sent me a letter about Florian,” he explains, pulling it out of his bag. He doesn’t open it, but Mott can see that the seal is broken. He probably read it earlier. He probably can’t bear to read it again. “She says he’s been admitted to an asylum near the Callahan family estate for a few weeks due to his mental break.” 

Mott nods, mulling the information over. “Then what?” 

Torquil turns the letter over in his hand, examining it mournfully. “Then he’ll be returning to his estate—permanently.” 

So, house arrest it is. Mott closes his eyes and allows the complicated emotions to pass through him. He doesn’t force a neutral mask onto his face; rather, he embraces each feeling as it comes. 

“He should be in jail,” he says, weary and angry and sad. “He deserves worse. If he wasn’t rich, he’d be dead.” 

“You don’t really want that,” Torquil responds, quietly. 

Yes, he does. But no, he doesn’t. It’s all complicated and tangled and miserable. 

He resigns himself to not having an answer to how he feels about Florian. Not yet, anyways. Of course he wants justice, even if Florian’s his friend. Of course he still cares about him, even if he’s a monster. 

He wishes he wasn’t so conflicted. He wishes this was easy. 

“So what’s happening to the Callahan estate?” He asks. 

“Nesta is taking over as the matriarch in a week.” 

Mott doesn’t take his eyes off the flowers, watching their carefree swaying in the wind. “I feel sorry for her.” 

“Me too.” 

They both watch the flowers in silence. Mott knows they’re both thinking about the gardens the three of them used to roam. Mott knows he’ll never see those gardens again. Those gardens still exist in the Callahan estate, but they don’t, really. He’s not sure he could bear to look at them knowing that they’ll always be a broken memory. 

Turning to Torquil, he wonders, “What are you going to do now? Your dad wanted you to be the patriarch of your family. Are you going to do it?” 

Torquil sighs, still gazing at the pasture. “I don’t know. For now, I’m going to keep traveling. Maybe I’ll figure all this mess out along the way. Maybe I’ll try to give Florian some company, see if I can’t bring him back to who he used to be.” 

Mott swallows the lump in his throat but says nothing. Just like the gardens, there’s no chance of returning to the Florian they used to know. But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he looks back out at the flowers. 

“Things used to be so simple back then,” Torquil whispers, almost to himself. He seems far away as he continues, “The worst thing that happened back then was our dads being shit to us and the neighborhood bullies picking on us.” Tearfully laughing, he adds, “And then Florian would save us and complain about it as he put bandages on us.” 

A bittersweet smile tugs onto Mott’s face. “He was never very good at putting them on. They were always crooked.” 

“They were,” Torquil huffs, amused and miserable all at once. His smile fades. “Then family politics got in the way of everything. Then we had a duty to our family names rather than to the people we actually cared about. It ruined everything.” 

“It did,” Mott agrees, quietly. 

A breeze passes over the valley, soft and melancholy. Almost like a ghost of the past bidding them a final farewell. 

It wasn’t long after that Torquil bid him goodbye. He said it felt like the town was choking him, and that he wanted to move on to someplace new. Mott assured him he understood, bid him a safe journey, and tried not to think about how this town used to be Torquil’s favorite place to be. 

Mott spent the next few hours helping rebuild the community center. Starting there seemed like the best course of action, as it could work as a headquarters of sorts for the town in the midst of reconstruction. With a good portion of the townspeople working together, they got the building standing again after a quarter of a day. By the time they finished, Mott’s rib was aching and the sun was starting to set. He decided then was a good time to quit for the day. Rest is necessary to recovery. 

So, he set off back to Hilda’s apartment, which survived the attack in miraculously good shape. Some windows were shattered and several dishes fell off shelves, but the glass was easy to clean and the windows were covered in tarp as a temporary measure. Overall, their house looks fairly good in comparison to others—which is probably why they’ve invited less fortunate people to live with them while their homes are being rebuilt. Their little apartment has been rather crowded these days, with several people stuffing themselves into one room, but Mott doesn’t mind. There’s a welcoming sense of community in the crowdedness, giving him new people to lean on and be leaned on by in return. 

Walking through the town this evening is a vastly different experience than his first walk through the town, or his walk through during the festival, or his walk through in the night just before the calamity struck. All of those moments were filled with a burgeoning sense of awe for the wonders of the city: the aqueducts, the architecture, the art, the crystal clear sky. This moment is different. The awe remains, but it’s shifted targets. He no longer regards the town with awe; rather, the people. The town is destroyed; the beauty it once held has been razed to the ground. But the people stand back up, dust themselves off, and work through the rubble. It’s like a forest after a devastating fire: everything may be burnt to ash, but there’s new life sprouting out of the cinders. 

There’s a bittersweet hope to that, and Mott carries it close to his heart. 

The cobblestone street is orange in the sunset, almost like a street of gold. In the center of it, twenty feet ahead, he spots a familiar figure. Lenny sits in the street with a group of children around him, teaching them all how to make flower crowns. The children watch with rapt attention, their eyes big and wide as they follow along. Their stems droop and the petals are a bit torn, but Lenny compliments each one until the child presenting it is beaming. Mott stops, watching the scene with a soft, fond smile on his face. 

It’s not long after that the children’s parents call them away, and Lenny waves to them all as they depart for the evening. Standing, he watches the children go with a contemplative look on his face, like he’s envisioning their futures in this town. Mott wonders what he sees. Does he see the sprouts rising out of the rubble like Mott does? 

There’s not much more time to think about it, because Lenny turns and sees him. A bright smile tugs on his face, his eyes glimmering with joy. Without a moment’s hesitation, he bounds over to Mott, arms open wide. Mott grins, takes a step forward, and warmly accepts the embrace. 

“I was wondering where you were,” Lenny remarks as he pulls away. He brushes some splinters of wood off Mott’s handkerchief. “Were you helping at the community center?” 

“How’d you guess?” 

“It just sounds like something you’d do.” 

Mott doesn’t know why that warms his heart so much. 

Holding the flower crown he’d made, Lenny raises it up to Mott’s head and motions for Mott to duck down. Mott obeys and the crown is placed gently on his head. Glancing up at it, Mott asks, “What’s this for?” 

“Nothing,” Lenny answers, adjusting it until it’s set in place. “It’s just for being you.” 

Mott’s smile grows. He can’t keep himself from nuzzling Lenny and feeling his heart burst with bliss. 

He’s just about to suggest they head back to Hilda’s—she gets scary when they miss dinner—when a familiar voice calls, “Ah, there he is! The man of the hour!” 

Mott’s body goes rigid, his blood freezing over. There’s no way that’s who he thinks it is. It’s been a long time since he’s heard that voice, after all, he could easily be mistaken. But when he turns around, he’s met with the exact sight he expected. 

The Alcott patriarch. 

“Father…?” He utters, wide-eyed and somewhat confused. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen his father smile before, and certainly not at _him_. But as his father approaches, it’s undeniable that he’s smiling right at him. Even more bizarre, his father reaches out and takes his hand in a friendly handshake. Mott stares at their clasped hands in complete bewilderment. 

“Montgomery, how good to see you again,” his father says wistfully, as though they’re long lost friends. Mott’s still busy staring at his hand like an idiot, even when his father lets go. “Everyone’s talking about you, my boy. Newspapers are calling you and your sidekick Unova’s Paladins. We’re all delightfully impressed by what you’ve done. And you’ve evolved, too! What impressive feats you’ve accomplished in such a short time.” 

Mott opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again and looks at Lenny as if to say, _Are you seeing this?!_ Lenny’s eyes are fixed on his father with uncharacteristic neutrality. Mott turns back and manages to say, “Uh, thanks.” 

It seems that his father notices Lenny for the first time, taking him in with poorly veiled disdain. His gaze then turns to the flower crown on Mott’s head, as if he’s connecting some dots. “I see this commoner has made something to show his appreciation for your act of heroism.” 

Irritation flickers in Mott’s chest, at that. “ _Our_ act of heroism. Lenny saved the day, too.” 

“Of course,” his father responds in that grossly condescending voice, the verbal equivalent of giving Lenny a participation trophy for his efforts. Shaking his attention from Lenny, he returns his focus to Mott with that strange smile again. “Anyways, my boy, I’ve come with wonderful news.” 

Mott discreetly pinches himself. Okay, so this isn’t a dream. “Wonderful news?” 

Father smiles with utmost graciousness, like he’s going to save Mott’s life with his next words. “Not only have you earned your place back in the Alcott family, you’ve earned your family crest.” 

Mott’s heart stops. 

“Congratulations, my son. You are officially a member of the great Alcott family.” 

He can hardly believe what he’s hearing. But sure enough, his father holds out a hand, displaying the family crest in his palm. Mott stares down at the royal blue and silver shining back at him, like a polished treasure just waiting to be plucked. It’s more than that, though—it’s everything he’s ever wanted to for the past twenty one years, handed to him on a platter. Mott could snatch it up right now and accept his rightful place in the Alcott family. 

“Go on,” his father urges, holding it up to him. “You’ve earned it.” 

He’s waited so long to hear those very words. And yet, now that they’ve finally been spoken, they fall flat. He _earned_ his spot in the family? How long is he going to have to earn recognition and acceptance, when it’s something that should be freely given? 

He stares at the crest. Then, he looks to the bandana around his arm. 

The choice is pretty obvious. 

“Thanks,” he says, pushing the crest away. “But no thanks.” 

His father’s smile strains. “I’m sorry?” 

“Thanks, but no thanks,” he repeats, straightening his shoulders. “I decided I don’t want it, nor do I need it.” 

“You don’t want the family crest, the most honorable symbol in the Alcott family spanning generations? Surely, you must be mistaken. Don’t be selfish,” His father insists, his voice a mix of incredulity and indignation. 

“I’m not selfish.” 

His father ignores him. “Why else would you have defeated Zekrom if not to bring honor to our family, as requested of you?” 

“Because I wanted to help people,” he answers without a shred of hesitation. “What I do has nothing to do with your approval, anymore.” 

“Montgomery,” his father hisses through clenched teeth, forcing a menacing smile for appearance’s sake. “If you do not accept this crest, you will be banished from the Alcott family— _permanently_.” 

Seriously? This again? 

Mott shrugs. “Okay.” And then, he walks away. 

A moment passes before anything else happens, as if Mott left everyone behind him speechless. That’s fine. He’d rather not hear his father’s petulant ranting, anyways. But after a moment, there’s a quick patter of light footsteps chasing after him, and soon Lenny is walking by his side. 

“Are you alright?” He asks, fixing Mott with a worried gaze. “That crest and your father’s approval… that’s all you’ve ever wanted.” 

“It was,” Mott answers, booping their noses together playfully. “But not anymore.” 

Lenny regards him for a long moment as if reading him like a book. Then, a smile dances on his face. 

“You’ve really changed, Mott,” he states, his voice warm and proud. “You’re like a whole new person.” 

Mott feels it too. 

_**The Epilogue** _

Back in the present, the town sits around Unova’s Paladins, wide-eyed and in awe of their tale. It’s impossible to imagine the renowned, unbeatable duo ever enduring any type of struggle, no matter how long ago it may have been. It almost feels like a fairytale. 

“Was that a satisfactory story?” Mott asks, grinning down at the little girl who kicked it all off. 

Little Alice stares back at him with a slack jaw, still marvelling. Soon enough, she shakes herself off and raises her hand, proclaiming, “I have a question!” 

“Have at it,” Mott replies. 

“Is all the kissy stuff real?” She asks, making a face of obvious disgust. “Because if it is, that ruins the whole thing for me.” 

That startles a laugh out of him. “In that case, yes, I made it all up.” Lenny shoves him. 

Another kid pokes their head up. “Did you really get kicked out of the Alcott family for good?” 

Mott shrugs. “I haven’t seen any of my family in years, so… I guess so?” 

“What happened to Hilda and her family? Do you still visit them?” 

“We make sure to meet up a few times every year,” Lenny answers, leaning against Mott. “It’s getting tougher now that Amari is out adventuring with a team of their own, but we still make it work.” 

An older woman pipes up. “And what about your family, dearie?” She says to Lenny. “How do they feel about all your traveling and battling?” 

Lenny shuffles his feet and grins sheepishly. “They, ah, don’t love it. But they’re coming around to the idea.” 

Alice raises her hand again, wondering, “What happened to Torquil and Florian?” 

For a moment, both of Unova’s Paladin’s are silent. They share a glance that communicates something none of the others can understand. 

“That’s… probably a story for another time,” Mott responds, vaguely. 

Before anyone can protest or ask another question, a sudden rush of wind whips through the street. The gale rips leaves off trees and shingles off roofs, threatening to tear the town apart. In the center of it all, with a furious scowl on its face, is the legendary tornadus. 

“The people of this town failed to offer an adequate sacrifice this year!” The legendary booms, it’s voice garbled and strange. Lifting its hands, it raises the currents of wind and collects a barrage of debris. “And for that, you all will become the sacrifice!” 

With a mighty roar, it shoots the debris out like bullets, raining down like a meteor shower. 

As the town screams, suffering its second catastrophe of the day, Mott and Lenny brace themselves against each other. When the bombardment temporarily dies down, the two paladins share a determined look. 

“Sorry, folks. No more time to talk,” Lenny says, leaping into action. 

“Duty calls,” Mott adds, brandishing his scalchop. “Let’s get ‘em, Len!” 

The two of them race off, already on their newest adventure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaand let the credits roll! 
> 
> Wow. I really don't know what to say. This story has been in the works for a long, long time now. Now that it's complete, I almost feel a sense of sorrow and pride all at once. It's bittersweet. But I'm really happy with the journey that I was able to go on with all of you throughout these few months, and I hope you all enjoyed it too. 
> 
> This was definitely one of the biggest works I've ever done. Thank you to everyone who stuck with it until the end! You all did a lot of reading to get to this final chapter, and I can't even tell you how much I appreciate that. I hope you enjoyed following along with Mott and Lenny's journey as much as I enjoyed telling it. 
> 
> Thank you all for the adventure.


End file.
